


Murder On The Hogwarts Express

by JacobsJottings



Series: Poirot Investigates [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling, Murder on the Orient Express, Poirot - Agatha Christie
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - 1930s, Crossover, Crossovers & Fandom Fusions, Gen, Historical References, Literature, Long, Murder, Murder Mystery, Mystery, Novel, Retelling, Rewrite, completed work
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-18
Updated: 2018-11-02
Packaged: 2019-02-03 23:31:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 32
Words: 64,855
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12758475
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JacobsJottings/pseuds/JacobsJottings
Summary: "The murderer is with us-on the train now . . ."Only halfway through the Scottish Highlands, the world-famous Hogwarts Express is stopped in its tracks by a snowdrift. By morning, the millionaire known as Tom Riddle lies dead in his compartment, stabbed a dozen times, his door locked from the inside. One of his fellow passengers must be the murderer.Isolated by the storm outside, Private Detective Hercule Poirot must find the killer among a dozen of the dead man's enemies, before the murderer decides to strike again. Will it be the graceful governess- Hermione Granger? The aggressive ministry official- Ron Weasley? Or one of the many other characters joined together by a simple holiday? In a world of magic and murder mystery, there will be lots of surprises to be found.A re-write of one of my favourite novels, Murder On The Orient Express by Agatha Christie, I hope you enjoy this just as much as I am enjoying writing it.See the end-notes of each chapter for the full list / reminder of what characters from Harry Potter are filling which roles from the novel.





	1. Passage On The Hogwarts Express

**Author's Note:**

> For a bit of background, within this universe, yes, magic does exist. Poirot and Doctor Constantine are both aware of its existence, so are all the passengers from the HP universe. However, Bouc, and the train staff are not aware of its existence. This I hope, will make for some interesting situations. 
> 
> The Hogwarts Express itself is a luxury train open to muggles, squibs, and wizards, providing passage to Scotland from London, and connecting to other luxury travel. The castle itself is therefore disguised to the outside world as a distant castle hotel and resort, which works as most non-wizards leave the train at Edinburgh or Fort William. Hogwarts is in fact still therefore, the Hogwarts we know and love. 
> 
> If you have not read the original novel by Agatha Christie, be aware that this is not actually needed, since the whole story is here, and with the character differences, as well as my own twist and turns, it is in part an original story in itself that needs no background information (other than from the HP universe of course). 
> 
> I've been writing this fic/crossover for a long time now. The feedback I've so far received here and on Tumblr has been extremely beneficial thus far, so as always please feel free to leave any criticisms (or praise) in the comments, or find me on tumblr under the same username (@jacobs-jottings). 
> 
> As Poirot would say, "'Bon voyage, and profite du spectacle!"

It was five o’clock on a winter’s morning in London. Alongside the platform at Kings Cross stood the train grandly designated in railway guides as the Hogwarts Express. It consisted of a kitchen and dining-car, a bar-car, the luxury sleeping-car and two local passenger coaches. It was painted in bright maroon, and finished with gold detailing.

By the step leading up into the sleeping-car stood a young Ministry Auror, resplendent in uniform; conversing with a small man whom nothing was visible but a pink-tipped nose and the two points of a grandly groomed moustache. The name of the mustachioed man was Hercule Poirot- the greatest Private Detective in the world. 

It was freezing cold, and this job of seeing off a stranger was not one to be envied, but Auror Dubosc performed his part perfectly. Graceful phrases fell from his lips in polished English. Not that he knew what it was all about. There had been rumours, of course, as there always were. The Minister’s temper had grown worse and worse. And then there had come this Belgian stranger—all the way from the continent. There had been a week of curious tensity. And then certain things had happened. A very distinguished Ministry Official had committed suicide, another had suddenly resigned, pained unsubtle faces had suddenly lost their pain, certain precautions were relaxed. And the Minister for Magic had suddenly looked two decades younger. 

Dubosc had overheard part of a conversation between the Minister and the stranger. “You have saved us, great man,” said the Minister emotionally, her whole body trembling as she spoke. “You have saved the honour of the Ministry Of Magic—you have averted much bloodshed! How can I thank you for acceding to my request? To have come so far—”  


To which the stranger, Hercule Poirot, had made a fitting reply including the phrase—“But indeed, do I not remember that once you saved my life?” And then the Minister had made another fitting reply to that, disclaiming any merit for that past service; and with more mention of Britain, of France, of Belgium, of glory, of war, and of peace- the conversation had ended, and Dubosc has been given the order to escort Poirot to London Kings Cross station. 

As to what it had all been about, Dubosc was still unaware, but he was carrying it out with all the zeal and ardour befitting a young Auror with a promising career ahead of him.

A cold wind came whistling down the platform, bringing Dubosc out of his distracted state. Both men shivered. Dubosc managed to cast a surreptitious glance at his watch. Five minutes to five— only five minutes more! He thought. Fancying that Poirot had noticed his glance, he hastened into speech. 

“The conductor should be able to book you on board now sir, there are few people travelling this time of year”.  
"Oui, that is so, I should" Poirot agreed.  
“Let us hope you will not be snowed up on your way to Scotland Poirot!” Dubosc added morbidly.  
Poirot froze- "That happens?"- his eyes glared into the Auror's.  
“It has occurred, yes, every winter. Not this year though, not yet.”  
"Let us hope it does not happen to me then..." Poirot trailed off. 

The scarlet locomotive suddenly let out a blaring whistle, it echoed around the glass domes of the station, with an "Au revoir, merci, merci, merci" Poirot left the Auror and made his way onto the train. Auror Dubosc scurried off, escaping the cold as soon as he could, by the time Poirot turned back around to give a gentle wave, he was gone. 

The conductor grabbed Poirot's bags as he boarded the coach and guided him to his allocated compartment in the sleeping-car wordlessly. Poirot did not mind, and instead focused on his surroundings- fine wooden veneer covered every corridor, and the floor was laid with plush carpets that matched the bright reds of the exterior. It was pure bliss and luxury. For the quiet winter season, he had an oddly hard time booking this compartment for his quiet retreat. And yet, he had seen no other passengers. Perhaps they would join them at another station, Poirot thought. Once the compartment had been unlocked, Poirot given his key, the Conductor had given a short-sharp "goodbye monsieur" and left. 

Poirot was not on his own for long though. As he made his way to the dining car for a cup of tea, a lady bumped into him, just as the train was pulling away. 

Hermione Jean Debenham Granger had had very little sleep since she had left mainland Europe on the preceding Thursday. Not on the train to Calais, nor on the boat to Dover, nor last night on the train which had brought her all the way to London had she slept properly. She hoped to find some time for sleep on the Hogwarts Express. Yet things were already not going well. 

Having been weary of lying wakeful in the hot stuffiness of her overheated compartment since last night, she had decided to venture for a cold drink, and paying little attention as the train departed, had bumped into a small portly Belgian who was now apologising in long French sentences. 

She smiled faintly. She had never seen anyone quite so heavily muffled up whilst indoors. It must be very cold outside- because there was no reason to be that warm indoors. That was why they heated the train so terribly of course. She had even tried to force the window of her own compartment down lower, but it would not go, so now she crossed paths with this Belgian she was sure she recognised. 

Once the mutual apologies had stopped, she turned her attention to making conversation. Six o'clock in the morning was an awkward time to board a train, and so she decided she would spend her time making friends rather than continuing the repressed atmosphere of the train she had taken to get to this one. 

"I hope you don't mind me saying good sir, but I recognise your face, were you on the train from Dover?"  
"Ah, you 'ave come from Calais?" she nodded and he continued- "I 'ave also come from Calais a few days ago, but no, I 'ave not seen you before Madam".  
She hesitated before continuing, giddiness in her voice, "I do recognise you from somewhere though..."  
"Per'aps? Maybe an English newspaper... it would not be the first time a young lady or gentleman has known my face before seeing it in the flesh". 

She realised he was right. She had seen him in the papers! In the Prophet to be exact, "Man Solves Ministry Crisis"- she still had the paper in her luggage from the week before.  
"Hercule Poirot!" she exclaimed excitedly.  
"Oui, you a've found him". He bowed gently. 

He looked at the woman now staring at him with bright eyes, she was tall, slim, and dark—perhaps twenty-nine years of age. She was undoubtedly English by her voice, and definitely upper class too.  
He had no doubt she had caught the attention of many. She had the build of a great beauty, and the voice of an intellectual. Only the latter interested him, and he was happy to make her acquaintance.  


There was however, a sorrow in her brown, tired eyes. And as he bid her goodbye, he was sure she would be lying down for more sleep, sleep she clearly needed.

How odd, Poirot thought, an affluent woman, probably a powerful witch, on a train holiday, filled with some kind of sadness. 

He continued to the bar car, sure he would see her again, and wondering what other people he would meet over the next two days, if they would all be as kind as the English woman, and if they would have as much humanity.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Roles Characters Fill:
> 
> Hercule Poirot - As Himself.
> 
> Dr. Constantine - As Himself.
> 
> The Conductor - As Himself.
> 
> M. Bouc. - As Himself.
> 
> Hermione Granger - As Mary Hermione Debenham.
> 
> Ron Weasley - As Colonel Arbuthnot.
> 
> William 'Bill' Weasley - As Count Andrenyi.
> 
> Fleur Delacour - As Countess Helena Maria Andrenyi (nee Goldenberg).
> 
> Molly Weasley - As Mrs. Hubbard/Linda Arden (Goldenberg).
> 
> Draco Malfoy - As Hector MacQueen.
> 
> Minerva McGonagall - As Princess Natalia Dragomiroff.
> 
> Sybil Trelawney - As Hildegarde Schmidt.
> 
> Luna Lovegood - As Greta Ohlsson.
> 
> Remus Lupin - As Cyrus Bethman Hardman.
> 
> Neville Longbottom - As Edward Henry Masterman.
> 
> Tom Riddle/Lord Voldemort - As Ratchett/Casetti: The Murder Victim.
> 
> Nymphadora Tonks - As the nursemaid, Susanne (DECEASED). 
> 
> Harry Potter - As Colonel Armstrong (DECEASED).
> 
> Ginevra Potter - As Sonia Armstrong (DECEASED).
> 
> Lily Luna Potter - As Daisy Armstrong (DECEASED).


	2. Hermione and The Colonel

The sun had barely risen when Poirot entered the dining-car at twenty minutes past six, he could see London fading away through the windows, and keeping his balance was becoming more and more difficult as the train gathered speed. He sat at a table alone, and ordered a cup of tea, it was brought to him on a silver tray. He was the only passenger in the dining cart for quite some time. 

The train had just passed Slough when Poirot decided to unfold his journey map, the train would head North, to Newcastle, on its way calling at many stations, it would then go to York the next day, where more coaches would be attached, then change lines toward Scotland and head to Edinburgh, it was here he suspected that if any great snow would halt the train, he would find out. He was fine with this. Edinburgh was nice and central. He could in the worst scenario stop there. After Edinburgh the train would hopefully and finally, go onward to Hogwarts.

Although the train was speeding up steadily, it was undoubtedly going unusually slow for the journey, probably due to the snow, Poirot guessed. 

He had just finished reading when Hermione entered the dining car, she was not alone, but conversing with a man, a tall English man with messy ginger hair, he was even taller than her. Once they sat down, Poirot overheard little snippets of conversation. They were talking about India, then about Turkey, then about France, and suddenly Poirot knew exactly where these two people had been over the past two months, and too, that they had probably been at the same time, even if not together. 

Poirot, having nothing better to do, amused himself by studying both of them without appearing to do so.

In this new light, Poirot could completely measure the woman. Gone was her giddiness. The woman now carried herself almost haughtily. But she could easily get away with it. She was, he judged, the kind of young woman who could take care of herself with perfect ease wherever she went. She had poise and she owned efficiency. She ordered her food with the voice of a director of a company. He rather liked the severe regularity of her features and the delicate skin that covered them too. The brunette neat waves of hair, and her eyes—they were deeply swirling brown. He correctly guessed also, that this man whom she was talking too, was similarly captured by her features. But had a very different agenda to Poirot. 

In Poirot's opinion, the man was of a completely different league, one below Miss Granger's. This was a man of between thirty, but would pass for forty, he was lean of figure, gangling even. Indian sun had managed to somehow both tan and burn this man, and it did not show well. This man was Colonel Ronald Weasley, Hermione had said that full title twice, but Poirot summed up, that he was probably not in India on standard military business, but on Ministry business, regardless of that muggle title.

This must be his holiday, Poirot gathered. He decided to once again listen to their conversation. 

“Well, you know, breakfast isn’t always a chatty meal" the Colonel said.  
"No, that is true, but mutual silence is just as good" Hermione replied coolly. 

The Colonel made himself more comfortable. “Boy,” he called the waiter, in a rather indelicate fashion.  
He gave an order for eggs, toast, sausages, and coffee. She gave an order for jam on a crumpet, and tea. 

Poirot finally ordered himself breakfast too, requiring that he be given two eggs of exactly the same size, and toast cut into exact triangles. 

The Colonel's eyes rested for a moment on Hercule Poirot, but they passed on indifferently. Poirot, reading the English mind correctly, knew that he had said to himself. “Only some damned foreigner.”  
Poirot decided that in contrast to Hermione, the Colonel was not an elegant, or maybe even kind person, just somewhat basic. It made him sigh aloud. 'Ow 'ave the English survived this long? He thought. 

True to their nationality, the two English people were not chatty during the consumption of their food. They exchanged a few brief remarks and the girl rose and went back to her compartment. The Colonel left not long after, Poirot noticed too, that he did not leave a tip. 

The train was halted at Peterborough for an age due to snow, the conductor made an announcement about it, and Poirot resigned himself to the fact this journey would be a slow one.

Poirot sat in the dining car until eleven o'clock, reading papers, drinking water, and taking in the sights of English countryside. 

At exactly eleven thirty, whilst the train was halted once again, the other two again entered, they shared a table and again they both completely ignored the third passenger. Their conversation was more animated than at breakfast. Colonel Weasley talked of the Punjab and occasionally asked the girl a few questions about Istanbul where, it became clear, she had been in a post as governess to an English family. 

In the course of the conversation they discovered some mutual friends, which had the immediate effect of making them more friendly and less stiff. They discussed old Harry Somebody and old Newt Someone Else. The Colonel then finally inquired whether she was going straight through to Hogwarts or whether she was stopping in Fort William.

“No, I’m going straight on this year.” She said.  
“Oh! I see. Well, I may say I’m very glad you are going right through, because... I am too.”  
He made a kind of clumsy little gesture, flushing a little as he did so.

He is redeemable yet, this Colonel, thought Poirot to himself with some amusement. 

Hermione said evenly that it would be very nice to travel together further. Her manner far more sustained, maybe even repressive. 

The Colonel, Hercule Poirot noticed, accompanied her back to her compartment as they left.

The train jerked forward suddenly and the train was on its way once again. 

Slightly later, as the train passed out of Cambridge, this time with some more passengers finally joining their part of the train, Poirot once again encountered the couple. They were looking as the train slowed, at the snow and ice covered town and surrounding countryside. Poirot was hypnotised by it in the same way they were. Standing in the corridor side by side, a sigh came suddenly from the girl. 

Poirot was standing, and heard her murmur:

“It’s so beautiful! I wish—I wish—”  
“Yes?” the Colonel mumbled back.  
“I wish I could enjoy it!” she exclaimed, her coolness totally lost. 

Colonel Weasley did not answer. The square line of his jaw seemed a little sterner and grimmer.

“I wish you were out of all this,” he said.  
“Hush, please. Hush,” she said, looking like she might cry.

Then the Colonel shot a slightly annoyed glance in Poirot’s direction. He went on with something Poirot summed up, was not the intended line of conversation: 

“But I don’t like the idea of your being a governess—at the beck and call of tyrannical mothers and their tiresome brats.”

She laughed with just a hint of hysteria in the sound. it did not sound genuine or authentic at all. 

“Oh! you must never think that. The downtrodden governess is quite an exploded myth. I can assure you that it’s the parents who are afraid of being bullied by me.”

They said no more. They were both perhaps, ashamed of this outburst.

“Rather an odd little show that I get to watch here,” said Poirot to himself thoughtfully once they moved on.

He was to remember that line of his later.

He carried on, it was now approaching three o'clock, the train was at least three hours behind schedule, and as he heard the murmuring of the new passengers on board the train, Poirot decided to retire to his compartment for a nap before their late arrival to Newcastle. Knowing that when the train arrived at Newcastle, there would be some time to disembark and stretch his legs. 

He feared that by morning, the train would be halted for hours, or even worse cancelled, now that the snow had gotten so bad.

At six o'clock, Poirot awoke to a great roar of activity outside of his door, they were at Newcastle, passengers who would not be continuing were emptying the train, and people who would be joining for the morning departure were having their luggage put onto the train in advance, some were boarding and sleeping on the train, others were going elsewhere for this night. Poirot decided to investigate the platform for his new fellow passengers. He made careful preparations, wrapping himself in several coats and mufflers and putting on his boots. Thus attired, he descended gingerly to the platform and began to pace its length. 

The two English travellers had also gotten out to stretch their legs, pacing up and down the snowy platform. Poirot watched them, not yet realising that they were not new people.

It was the voices which gave him the clue to the fact it was Hermione and the Colonel, in the shadow of a luggage cart. The Colonel was speaking.

“Hermione—”  
The girl interrupted him.  
“Not now. Not now. When it’s all over. When it’s behind us—then we will—”

Poirot turned away out of politeness. But still he wondered what they were now discussing.  
He did note however, that the desperation in the Colonel's voice was met with the same cool efficiency Poirot had recognised in Hermione, not the emotional voice of earlier in the day.

As the snow became heavier, and as he made his way back to the train to go to dinner, Poirot could not help but try and find a reason for all of the strange behaviour, perhaps they had quarrelled?  
Yes, that must be it, Poirot decided, although not fully convinced.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Roles Characters Fill:
> 
> Hercule Poirot - As Himself.
> 
> Dr. Constantine - As Himself.
> 
> The Conductor - As Himself.
> 
> M. Bouc. - As Himself.
> 
> Hermione Granger - As Mary Hermione Debenham.
> 
> Ron Weasley - As Colonel Arbuthnot.
> 
> William 'Bill' Weasley - As Count Andrenyi.
> 
> Fleur Delacour - As Countess Helena Maria Andrenyi (nee Goldenberg).
> 
> Molly Weasley - As Mrs. Hubbard/Linda Arden (Goldenberg).
> 
> Draco Malfoy - As Hector MacQueen.
> 
> Minerva McGonagall - As Princess Natalia Dragomiroff.
> 
> Sybil Trelawney - As Hildegarde Schmidt.
> 
> Luna Lovegood - As Greta Ohlsson.
> 
> Remus Lupin - As Cyrus Bethman Hardman.
> 
> Neville Longbottom - As Edward Henry Masterman.
> 
> Tom Riddle/Lord Voldemort - As Ratchett/Casetti: The Murder Victim.
> 
> Nymphadora Tonks - As the nursemaid, Susanne (DECEASED). 
> 
> Harry Potter - As Colonel Armstrong (DECEASED).
> 
> Ginevra Potter - As Sonia Armstrong (DECEASED).
> 
> Lily Luna Potter - As Daisy Armstrong (DECEASED).


	3. Onward to Edinburgh

When Poirot awoke on the second day of his journey, it was like after his nap the night before, there was great activity in the corridor. Aware of the fact he would not achieve further sleep in the great noise of things, he dressed and left his compartment.

Heads were poked out of windows all down the corridor of his carriage. He too joined them, and looked out. A little knot of men were clustered by the side of the line looking and pointing at something under the dining-car. Poirot leaned out and spoke to, in quick French, the conductor who was hurrying past on the platform. The man answered, and Poirot drew back his head and, turning, almost collided for the second time in two days, with Hermione Granger, who was standing just behind him.

“What is the matter?” she asked rather breathlessly in French. “Why are we stopping?”  
“It is nothing, Mademoiselle. It was something that had caught fire under the dining-car. Nothing serious. It is out. They are now repairing the damage. There is no danger, I assure you.”  
He was quite happy to know the woman knew some French, but the manner in which she was presenting herself was overwhelming and unnerving even to Poirot.  
She made a little abrupt gesture, as though she were waving the idea of danger aside as something completely unimportant. 

“Yes, yes, I understand that. But the time!”  
“The time Mademoiselle?”  
“Yes, this will delay us surely?!”  
“It is possible—yes,” agreed Poirot, not quite sure why this was an issue, after yesterday's continued delays. 

“But we can’t afford delay! This train is due in at 8.45am at York, and one has to cross the bridge from the day express to catch the Hogwarts Express on the other side at nine o’clock.  
If we are still here, the day train will be stuck behind us, and won't make it there on time, and all those people shall miss the chance to board our train!” 

“It is so, as I said, yes...” he admitted again. Still confused. Surely not that many people from the day train could be due on this one, he thought, otherwise they would have gotten on-board back in London.  
He looked at her curiously. The hand that held the window bar was not quite steady; her lips, too, were trembling. 

“Does it really matter to you that much, Mademoiselle?” he asked.  
“Yes. Yes, it does. They—they must catch this train.” 

She turned away from him and went down the corridor to join Colonel Weasley. Her anxiety, however, was needless. Ten minutes later the train started, and left Newcastle with little fuss. It arrived at York only five minutes late, having made up time on the journey, thanks to the now well-ploughed mainline. Not long after, the day express arrived, and new passengers joined the train, some from the day express itself, and some from a newly attached sleeping carriage. Despite Hermione's panic earlier, none seemed to interact with the woman immediately. 

Poirot decided to go for lunch whilst the train sat at York. It at least allowed him to meet his new fellow passengers, the room was now full, as well as Hermione and the Colonel, and of course himself, eleven new people were on-board, they occupied tables and chairs, sat dining. Before he could say anything, a very loud voice called him over.

"Ah! Mon cher! What a surprise it is that you are on my train!" a portly Frenchman exclaimed, it was Monsieur Bouc, one of the directors of the train company Wagon Lit Internationale, who owned, among other trains, this one, The Belmond, and the Orient Express. A close friend of Poirot. His acquaintance with the former star of the Belgian police force dated back many years. He was from the extra coach added to the express, one of only three occupying it- whilst all the others would occupy the cabins in the same coach as Poirot. 

“You find yourself far from home, mon cher,” said Bouc.  
"It is true, it is true, I am on holiday, I am here to explore before returning to London for my cases," replied Poirot.  
“Les affaires—les affaires! But you, you are at the top of the tree nowadays, mon vieux!” The Frenchman threw.  
“Some little success I have had, perhaps.” Hercule Poirot tried to look modest, but failed. 

The two talked for some time, as the second course of lunch arrived, Poirot grew distracted by others in the room. 

Two sat at a table not far away. The younger was a likeable-looking young man of thirty, with platinum blonde hair. It was, however, not he but his companion who had attracted the little detective’s attention. He was a man perhaps of between sixty and seventy. From a little distance he had the bland aspect of a philanthropist. His baldness, his domed forehead, the smiling mouth that displayed a very yellow set of teeth—all seemed to speak of a potentially benevolent personality. Only the eyes belied this assumption. They were small, deep-set and crafty. Not only that. As the man, making some remark to his young companion, glanced across the room, his gaze stopped on Poirot for a moment and just for that second there was a strange malevolence, an unnatural and disgusting tensity in the glance.

Then he rose.  
“Pay the bill, Draco,” he said to the younger man.  
His voice was slightly husky in tone. It had a dangerous quality.  
The younger man paid and said “Quite ready now, Mr. Riddle.”  
The elder man grunted an assent and left, the younger man following. 

“Eh bien,” said Poirot. “What do you think of those two?”  
“The old one is American it seems,” said Bouc. "The other English-American".  
"English-American?" laughed Poirot. What a thought. What a joke. 

He continued. “Assuredly they are not of our origin. I meant what do you think of their personalities?”  
“The young man seemed quite agreeable.” Said Bouc.  
“And the other?” Poirot urged.  
“To tell you the truth, my friend, I did not care for him. He produced on me an unpleasant impression". 

Poirot could not rid himself of the impression that pure evil had passed him by very close. He felt disgusted and angry. He did not fully know how, or why.  
"There is much evil in the world.” he added as the final comment on the matter. 

Bouc allowed his own attention to wander to matters other than nourishment and evil Americans. He was at the stage of a meal when one becomes almost philosophic. He sighed, then spoke.  
“If only I had the skills of Da Vinci or Picasso! I would depict this scene we have 'ere.”  
“It is an idea, that,” said Poirot. 

“Ah, you agree? It has not been done, I think? And yet—it lends itself to romance, my friend. All around us are people, of all classes, of all nationalities, of all ages. For three days these people, these strangers to one another, are brought together. They sleep and eat under one roof, they cannot get away from each other. At the end of three days they part, they go their several ways, never perhaps to see each other again.” Bouc lamented.

“And yet,” said Poirot, “suppose an accident—it would be regrettable. But nevertheless let us just for one moment suppose it. Then, perhaps, all these here are linked together—by death.”  
“Some more wine,” said Bouc, hastily pouring it out. “You are morbid, mon cher. It is, perhaps the digestion.” 

Poirot sipped his wine. Then, leaning back, he ran his eye thoughtfully round the dining-car. There were thirteen people seated there and, as Bouc had said, of all classes and nationalities. He finally, and excitedly, began to study them.

At the table opposite them were two men. They were, he guessed, single travellers graded and placed there by the unerring judgement of the restaurant attendants. A neat Englishman had the expressionless disapproving face of the well-trained servant. Next to the Englishman was another one, older, this one in a tan suit suit—possibly a commercial traveller or tourist. This first was Neville Longbottom, the valet of the foul American Poirot had seen earlier, and the second in the tan suit was Remus Lupin, someone he had not yet placed. The Englishmen both looked out of the window in perfect synchronisation.

Poirot’s eye passed on.

At a small table, sitting very upright, was one of the oldest ladies he had ever seen. She had an ugliness of distinction—it fascinated rather than repelled. She sat very upright. Round her neck was a collar of very large greenish pearls which, improbable though it seemed, were real. Her hands were covered with rings. Her sable coat was pushed back on her shoulders. A very small and expensive black toque was hideously unbecoming to the pale, cat-like face beneath it. She was speaking now to the restaurant attendant in a clear, courteous, but completely autocratic tone.

“You will be sufficiently amiable to place in my compartment a bottle of mineral water and a large glass of orange juice. You will arrange that I shall have chicken cooked without sauces for dinner this evening—also for my second course, some broiled fish.”

The attendant replied respectfully that it should be done. Poirot noted that none of these items were on that day's dinner menu.

She gave a slight gracious nod of the head and rose. Her glance caught Poirot’s and swept over him with the nonchalance of the uninterested aristocrat.

“That is Princess McGonagall-Dragomiroff,” said Bouc in a low tone. "She is a Russian by marriage. Her husband realised all his money before the Revolution and invested it abroad. She is extremely rich. She even has a castle in Scotland”.

Poirot nodded. He had heard of the Princess. The Scottish witch had power in both magic and mind, long before her Russian wealth came into her life and gave her a new type of power.

“She is a personality,” said M. Bouc. “Ugly as sin but she makes herself felt. You agree?”  
Poirot definitely agreed.

At another of the large tables Miss Hermione Granger was sitting with two other women. One of them was tall and around thirty years of age, she was in a plaid blouse and tweed skirt. She had a mass of dirty blonde hair unbecomingly arranged in a large bun, wore pink glasses, and had a long mild amiable face rather like a sheep. This was Luna Lovegood, apparently a Scandinavian. 

She was listening to the third woman, a stout, red-haired, pleasant-faced, elderly person who was talking in a slow clear monotone which showed no signs of pausing for breath or coming to a stop.

“—and so my daughter said, ‘Why,’ she said, ‘you just can’t apply American methods in this country. It’s natural to the folks here to be indolent,’ she said. "They just haven’t got any hustle in them— But all the same you’d be surprised to know what our colleges here are doing. They’ve got a fine staff of teachers. I guess there’s nothing like education. We’ve got to apply our American ideals and teach the world to recognise them. Even the British need to learn. My daughter says—”

The train plunged into a tunnel. The woman's voice was thankfully drowned. Poirot could not help but feel her American accent sounded very exaggerated, as if she was playing a part in the theatre.  
Bouc later told him this woman was called Molly Hubbard, but he again felt like he could place her face to another name... 

At the next table, a small one, sat Colonel Weasley—alone. His gaze was fixed upon the back of Hermione’s head. They were not sitting together. Yet it could easily have been managed. Why? 

Perhaps, Poirot thought, Hermione had demurred. A governess learns to be careful. Appearances are important. An unmarried girl with her living to get has to be discreet when working with high profile, conservative, English families, nobody wants a scandalous lady teaching their children.

His glance shifted to the other side of the carriage. At the far end, against the wall, was a middle-aged woman dressed in layers of knitted cloaks, she had an expressionless face. Probably the lady’s-maid of the Princess, Sybil Trelawney. Yes, she looked the part. He looked on again, this woman though wild in her choice of dress, hair, and makeup, was highly unremarkable. 

Across from her were a couple leaning forward and talking animatedly together. The man wore English clothes of loose tweed, but he was apparently not English if the long French sentences his wife used were anything to go by. Perhaps he was foreign and educated here, Poirot decided. Though only the back of his head was visible to Poirot, the shape of it and the set of the shoulders betrayed him. A big man, well made. He turned his head suddenly and Poirot saw his profile. A very pale man of thirty or forty with a hairless face, like the Colonel Weasley, and Mrs. Hubbard, he had fiery hair atop his head, however, most noticeable was the long and deep scar on his right cheek.

The woman opposite him was youthful—twenty-five at a guess. A tight-fitting little black coat and skirt, blue satin blouse, small chic black toque perched at the fashionably outrageous angle. She had a beautiful foreign-looking face, dead white skin, large blue eyes, beautiful golden hair. She was smoking a cigarette in a long holder. Her manicured hands had deep blue nails. She wore one large sapphire set in silver.  
There was coquetry in her glance and voice. It was strange, she was French, and clearly foreign unlike her husband, something he clearly exaggerated via her presence. 

“Husband and wife" Bouc suddenly said, noting Poirot's point of interest. “French Embassy visit, I believe,” he added.  
"French? You are sure- even the husband?" Poirot questioned.  
"Yes, the Count and Countess Delacour- you will know that name surely, she at least is famed the world over".  
"Ah, oui, I may have heard- what are they doing here?" Poirot replied rhetorically.

And with that, apart from the staff, Poirot now had the profile of everyone on the sleeping train. 

As his coffee was brought to him, Bouc rose to his feet. Having started food before Poirot, he had finished some time ago.  
“I return to my compartment,” he said.

Poirot sipped his coffee and ordered a liqueur. The attendant was passing from table to table with his box of money, accepting payment for bills. The elderly American lady’s voice rose out above the room, shrill and pain-inducing.

“My daughter said: ‘Take a book of food tickets and you’ll have no trouble—no trouble at all.’ Now, that isn’t so. Seems they have to have a ten per cent tip, and then there’s that bottle of mineral water I have to pay for because the tap is no good. My daughter said-" 

Hermione pushed back her chair and left with a slight bow to the other two. Colonel Weasley jumped clumsily up and followed her. Gathering up her money the American woman followed suit, followed by the other woman- the one who was like a sheep. The French aristocrats then departed too. The restaurant car was empty save for Poirot.

Out loud, Poirot mumbled "And so we 'av our brilliant cast... And what an odd cast they are!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Roles Characters Fill:
> 
> Hercule Poirot - As Himself.
> 
> Dr. Constantine - As Himself.
> 
> The Conductor - As Himself.
> 
> M. Bouc. - As Himself.
> 
> Hermione Granger - As Mary Hermione Debenham.
> 
> Ron Weasley - As Colonel Arbuthnot.
> 
> William 'Bill' Weasley - As Count Andrenyi.
> 
> Fleur Delacour - As Countess Helena Maria Andrenyi (nee Goldenberg).
> 
> Molly Weasley - As Mrs. Hubbard/Linda Arden (Goldenberg).
> 
> Draco Malfoy - As Hector MacQueen.
> 
> Minerva McGonagall - As Princess Natalia Dragomiroff.
> 
> Sybil Trelawney - As Hildegarde Schmidt.
> 
> Luna Lovegood - As Greta Ohlsson.
> 
> Remus Lupin - As Cyrus Bethman Hardman.
> 
> Neville Longbottom - As Edward Henry Masterman.
> 
> Tom Riddle/Lord Voldemort - As Ratchett/Casetti: The Murder Victim.
> 
> Nymphadora Tonks - As the nursemaid, Susanne (DECEASED). 
> 
> Harry Potter - As Colonel Armstrong (DECEASED).
> 
> Ginevra Potter - As Sonia Armstrong (DECEASED).
> 
> Lily Luna Potter - As Daisy Armstrong (DECEASED).


	4. Riddle Proffers, and Poirot Refuses

The train had just left York station when Poirot's liqueur was finally served by one of the attendants. 

The older man from before, now known to Poirot as Mr. Riddle appeared in the dining car once again, his evil eyes looked at Poirot discerningly, and the man did not ask for permission when sitting opposite Poirot, where his friend Bouc had previously been. 

"Can you oblige me with a light?" he said. His voice was harsh and distinctive— faintly nasal. "My name is Riddle."

Poirot bowed slightly. But did not smile. He slipped his hand into his pocket and produced a matchbox which he handed to the other man, who took it but did not strike a light.

"I think," the evil man went on, "that I have the pleasure of speaking to Mr. Hercule Poirot. Is that so?"

Poirot bowed his head slightly again. "You have been correctly informed, Monsieur."  
The detective was conscious of those strange shrewd eyes summing him up before the other spoke again.

"In my family," he said, "we come to the point quickly. Mr. Poirot, you are to take on a job for me."  
Hercule Poirot's eyebrows went up a trifle. "My clientele, Monsieur, is limited nowadays. I undertake very few cases."

There was a pause in conversation as Riddle looked into Poirot's soul. 

"Why, naturally, I understand that. But this, Mr. Poirot, means big money." He repeated again in his pressing, persuasive voice, "Big money."

Hercule Poirot was silent a minute or two. Then he said: "What is it you wish me to do for you, Monsieur—er—Riddle?" 

"Mr. Poirot, I am a rich man—a very powerful man. Men in that position have enemies. I have an enemy."  
"Only one enemy?" Poirot retorted, finding it hard to hide his amusement at the vile man's underestimation. 

"Just what do you mean by that question?" asked Riddle sharply.  
"Monsieur," Poirot started, ready to cover his tracks "in my experience when a man is in a position to have enemies, then it does not usually resolve itself into just one".

Riddle seemed relieved by Poirot's answer. His voice softened and he said quickly: "I appreciate that point. Enemy or enemies—it doesn't matter. What does matter is my safety."  
Poirot's brows raised, Riddle did not seem like the type of man who needed protection from another, he looked instead like the type who would stab a man without hesitation or remorse. 

"Ah, it is the safety you are worried about? Well, I am listening Monsieur" Poirot replied in feigned delicacy and concern. 

"My life has been threatened, Mr. Poirot. Now I'm a man who can take pretty good care of himself." From the pocket of Riddle's coat his hand brought a bright white wand into sight for a moment. It looked as if it could be made of pure human bone. Either way, the wand of a dark magician. He continued grimly. "I don't think I'm the kind of man to be caught napping. But, as I look at it, I might as well make assurance doubly sure. I fancy you're the man for my money, Poirot. And remember— I can give you big money."

Poirot looked at Riddle thoughtfully for some minutes. His face was completely expressionless, and his thoughts remained hidden behind this lack of expression. The other could have had no clue as to what thoughts were passing in that mind, and merely eyed the Belgian with his unkind eyes. 

"I regret, Monsieur," Poirot said at length, "that I cannot oblige you."  
The other looked at him shrewdly. "Name your figure, then," he said "something other than money perhaps?" 

Poirot simply shook his head and frowned slightly in reply, and began to talk bluntly. 

"You do not understand, Monsieur. I have been very fortunate in my profession. I have made enough money to satisfy both my needs and my caprices. I take now only such cases as—interest me."  
Riddle watched Poirot as he said this, and snarled, displaying those yellow teeth Poirot was growing quickly to dislike. 

"You've got a pretty good nerve," said Riddle. "Will twenty thousand galleons tempt you?"  
"It certainly will not." Poirot said plainly, still amazed the man did not realise this was not about money. 

"If you're holding out for more, you won't get it. I know what a thing's worth to me." spat Riddle,  
"I, also, Riddle, and this is not worth it." Poirot said, ready to end the encounter. 

"What's wrong with my proposition?" Riddle insisted, grabbing Poirot's wrist as he tried to leave. 

Poirot rose regardless, pulling out of the old man's devilish grip. "If you will forgive me for being personal—I do not like your face, au-revoir Mister Riddle" he said.

And with that Hercule Poirot left the restaurant car, having refused a case for the first time in his recollection.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Roles Characters Fill:
> 
> Hercule Poirot - As Himself.
> 
> Dr. Constantine - As Himself.
> 
> The Conductor - As Himself.
> 
> M. Bouc. - As Himself.
> 
> Hermione Granger - As Mary Hermione Debenham.
> 
> Ron Weasley - As Colonel Arbuthnot.
> 
> William 'Bill' Weasley - As Count Andrenyi.
> 
> Fleur Delacour - As Countess Helena Maria Andrenyi (nee Goldenberg).
> 
> Molly Weasley - As Mrs. Hubbard/Linda Arden (Goldenberg).
> 
> Draco Malfoy - As Hector MacQueen.
> 
> Minerva McGonagall - As Princess Natalia Dragomiroff.
> 
> Sybil Trelawney - As Hildegarde Schmidt.
> 
> Luna Lovegood - As Greta Ohlsson.
> 
> Remus Lupin - As Cyrus Bethman Hardman.
> 
> Neville Longbottom - As Edward Henry Masterman.
> 
> Tom Riddle/Lord Voldemort - As Ratchett/Casetti: The Murder Victim.
> 
> Nymphadora Tonks - As the nursemaid, Susanne (DECEASED). 
> 
> Harry Potter - As Colonel Armstrong (DECEASED).
> 
> Ginevra Potter - As Sonia Armstrong (DECEASED).
> 
> Lily Luna Potter - As Daisy Armstrong (DECEASED).


	5. A Cry In The Night

The Hogwarts Express arrived at Edinburgh at a quarter to one that same afternoon. The journey from York was an effortless one, but the train was not due to depart again until 10.15pm that night, so Poirot descended to the platform. He did not, however, remain there long. 

The cold was bitter, and though the platform itself was protected, heavy snow was falling outside of the station, and a deathly wind blew straight through the arches of the station, just as they had in London when Poirot first boarded the luxury train. He returned to his compartment, whilst some of his fellow passengers ventured into the city to find activities to kill the time until departure. 

Once everyone had returned that evening, and had eaten dinner, the Conductor made rounds, knocking on the doors of all the passengers, and informing them that the train would be making a slow journey to Hogwarts due to the worsening weather, but confirming the journey would not be cancelled. 

The Conductor had extra news for Poirot "Monsieur. Please would you visit the compartment of M. Bouc."  
"Ah, yes of course, but where is Monsieur Bouc, then?" he inquired. 

"He is in the coach that was attached at York, first on the left."

Poirot went in search of his friend. M. Bouc, finding the small, but pleasant and luxurious first class compartment quickly. It was largely identical to Poirot’s own, all apart from the monogrammed suitcases and other materilistic personal items filling it.

"Ah, my friend," Bouc began, "how are you finding the journey so far?" he asked in a business-like manner.  
"It is good yes, would be even better without the snow... and the passenger Riddle is a strange one- do you know-" he was cut off by Bouc. 

"Well me, I am very well here. It is most peaceful. Ah! my friend, what a night! They say there has not been so much snow for years. Let us hope we shall not be held up. I am not too happy about it, I can tell you, they wanted me to cancel the journey- no I say! All of these passengers."

Poirot examined his friend, "And you do not find it strange that the train is so booked up, whilst normally almost empty? I was told by the London Auror that it is usually quiet at this time of year".  
"Ah, yes, assuredly it is, per'aps it is just a last minute holiday, I would not overthink it friend- I just hope you will enjoy the journey tonight", Poirot then left wishing Bouc a pleasant goodbye, unsure to why his friend had summoned him, regardless, when he returned to his cabin, it had been made up, bed ready for sleep. 

At exactly 10.15pm the train pulled out of the station, travelling in the opposite direction to all the other days, ready to round and through the Scottish Highlands. 

Poirot carefully made his way along the corridor back to his own coach which involved travelling from Bouc's carriage at the rear, through two now-empty standard passenger carriages, and finally into his own.  
As he prepared to enter his own cabin, which was immediately near him, the number one, he realised social barriers were breaking down.

Colonel Weasley was standing at the door of his compartment at the opposite end of the carriage talking to Draco, one of Riddle's staff. When Draco saw Poirot he broke off something he was saying. He looked very much surprised. "Why," he cried, "I thought you'd left us Mr. Poirot. I saw you getting off at York."

"You misunderstand," said Poirot, smiling. "I simply needed the air Monsieur, then I visited my friend Bouc!"  
"Oh! I see." Draco replied, his voice heightened but pleasant. 

Draco resumed his conversation with the Colonel, and Poirot's eyes passed on down the corridor, the door between the carriage and the next forward coach- the bar car- opened.  
The elderly American, Molly Hubbard, was standing talking to the sheep-like lady, Luna. Mrs. Hubbard was pressing a magazine on the other.

"No, do take it, my dear," she said. "I've got plenty of other things to read- this has a great article on Nargles you will love. My, isn't the cold something frightful?" Both women then nodded amicably to Poirot when they saw him.

"You are most kind," said Luna to Mrs. Hubbard before entering the cabin at the very end, the one where Hermione also resided on the first day- they were now sharing.

As Mrs. Hubbard left her to do so, she carried on talking "Not at all. I hope you'll sleep well and that your head will be better in the morning."  
"It is the cold only. I make now myself a cup of tea." Luna said back. 

Mrs. Hubbard stopped walking and paused to speak "Would you like some aspirin?" Luna shook her head- "Are you sure now? I've got plenty. Come and get some if you need later! Well, good night, my dear."

When she arrived at her own door, after squeezing past the Colonel and Draco, she turned to Poirot conversationally.

"Poor creature, she's a sweet thing. As far as I can make out she's a kind of animal caretaker. A nice creature, but doesn't talk much English perhaps. She was most interested in what I told her about my daughter though."

Poirot, by now, knew all about Mrs. Hubbard's daughter. Everyone on the train who could understand English did! How her daughter and her daughter's husband were on the staff of a big American college in England, where they taught 'Big Business' and how this was Mrs. Hubbard's first journey to the Scot-er-land, and what she thought of the British and their stuffy ways and the condition of their roads- that did not accommodate her son-in-law's big American Cadillac.

Between Poirot's cabin and Mrs. Hubbard's was Riddle's. Before Poirot could reply to the woman, the door next to them opened. The thin pale manservant- Neville Longbottom, who Poirot had not seen in a while stepped out, he looked distressed. Inside, Poirot caught a glimpse of the evil man sitting up in bed. Riddle saw Poirot and his face changed, darkening with anger. Then the door was shut by Longbottom in haste.

Mrs. Hubbard drew towards Poirot a little to let Longbottom pass, her face transforming.

"You know, I'm dead scared of that man. Oh! not the valet—the other. His master. Master, indeed! There's something wrong about that man. My daughter always says I'm very intuitive. 'When Mamma gets a hunch, she's dead right,' that's what my daughter says. And I've got a hunch about that man. He's next door to me and I don't like it. My cabin adjoins to his you see! I put my grips against the communicating door last night. I thought I heard him trying the handle. Do-you-know, I shouldn't be a bit surprised if that man turned out to be a murderer—one of these train robbers you read about. I daresay I'm foolish, but there it is. I'm absolutely scared to death of the man! My daughter said I'd have an easy journey, but somehow I don't feel happy about it. It may be foolish, but I feel as if anything might happen—anything at all. And how that nice young fellow can bear to be his valet, and the other Draco, his secretary, I can't think- I can't imagine serving such a horrible fellow!"

Again, Poirot couldn't answer. Colonel Weasley and Draco were coming slightly towards them down the corridor, they moved from Weasley's cabin, and into Draco's which was sandwiched between Mrs. Hubbard's and the Colonel's. 

"Come into my cabin," Draco was saying. "It isn't made up for the night yet, the sofa is out, I don't want to disturb your bed. Now what I want to get right about your policy in India is this—"

The two men went in and sat down, the door ajar, but their distance muting them slightly. Finally Poirot could reply to Mrs. Hubbard. 

Mrs. Hubbard did not let him, and said goodnight to Poirot. "I guess I'll go right to bed and read," she said. "Goodnight."

"Good night, Madame." was all Poirot could manage before she shut her door. 

Poirot passed into his own compartment, which was the next one beyond Riddle's. He undressed and got into bed, read for about half an hour and then turned out the light.

Poirot awoke some hours later, awoke with a start. 

Poirot knew what had wakened him—a loud groan, almost a cry, somewhere close at hand. At the same moment the ting of a bell sounded sharply. Poirot sat up and switched on the light. He noticed that the train was at a standstill again—presumably at a station. 

That cry had startled him. He remembered that it was Riddle who had the next compartment, there wasn't one on the other side, Poirot's was the last. He got out of bed and opened the door just as the Wagon Lit Conductor came hurrying along the corridor and knocked on Riddle's door. 

Poirot kept his door open a crack and watched. 

The Conductor tapped a second time. A bell rang and a light showed over another door farther down at the same time. The Conductor glanced over his shoulder, seeming hesitant on whether to leave Riddle's door yet. On cue however, a voice from within the next compartment called out: "Ce n'est rien. Je me suis trompé."

"Bien, Monsieur." The Conductor scurried off again, to knock at the door where the light was showing.

Poirot closed the door shut, returned to bed, his mind relieved, but slightly confused, and then switched off the light.

He quickly glanced at his pocket watch before closing his eyes. It was twenty-three minutes past midnight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Roles Characters Fill:
> 
> Hercule Poirot - As Himself.
> 
> Dr. Constantine - As Himself.
> 
> The Conductor - As Himself.
> 
> M. Bouc. - As Himself.
> 
> Hermione Granger - As Mary Hermione Debenham.
> 
> Ron Weasley - As Colonel Arbuthnot.
> 
> William 'Bill' Weasley - As Count Andrenyi.
> 
> Fleur Delacour - As Countess Helena Maria Andrenyi (nee Goldenberg).
> 
> Molly Weasley - As Mrs. Hubbard/Linda Arden (Goldenberg).
> 
> Draco Malfoy - As Hector MacQueen.
> 
> Minerva McGonagall - As Princess Natalia Dragomiroff.
> 
> Sybil Trelawney - As Hildegarde Schmidt.
> 
> Luna Lovegood - As Greta Ohlsson.
> 
> Remus Lupin - As Cyrus Bethman Hardman.
> 
> Neville Longbottom - As Edward Henry Masterman.
> 
> Tom Riddle/Lord Voldemort - As Ratchett/Casetti: The Murder Victim.
> 
> Nymphadora Tonks - As the nursemaid, Susanne (DECEASED). 
> 
> Harry Potter - As Colonel Armstrong (DECEASED).
> 
> Ginevra Potter - As Sonia Armstrong (DECEASED).
> 
> Lily Luna Potter - As Daisy Armstrong (DECEASED).


	6. The Crime

Poirot found it difficult to go to sleep again at once. For one thing he missed the motion of the train. If it was a station outside, it was curiously quiet. By contrast the noises in the train seemed unusually loud. He thought he could hear Riddle moving about next door—a click as he pulled down the washbasin, the sound of the tap running, a splashing noise, then another click as the basin shut to again. Footsteps then passed up the corridor outside, the shuffling footsteps of someone in the train's complimentary bedroom slippers.

Hercule Poirot lay awake, and opened his eyes once more, staring at the ceiling in the dark. Why was the station outside so silent? His throat felt dry. He had forgotten to ask for his usual bottle of mineral water before bed. He looked at his watch again. Just after a quarter past one. Just less than an hour had already past. He would ring for the conductor and ask for some mineral water. His finger went out to the bell, but he paused as in the stillness he heard a ting. The Conductor couldn't answer every bell at once.

Ting.... Ting.... Ting....

It sounded again and again. Where was the man? Somebody was getting impatient.

Ti-i-i-ing!

Whoever it was, was now keeping a finger solidly on the push-button, in desperation it seemed.

Suddenly with a rush, footsteps echoing up the aisle, the Conductor came. He knocked at a door not far from Poirot's own.

Then came voices—the Conductor's, deferential, apologetic; and a woman's, insistent and voluble.

Ah, Mrs. Hubbard! Poirot smiled to himself.

The altercation—if it was one—went on for some time. Its proportions were ninety per cent of Mrs. Hubbard's to a soothing ten per cent of the conductor's. Finally the matter seemed to be adjusted.  
Poirot heard distinctly a "Bonne nuit, Madame," and a closing door.

He pressed his own finger on the bell in his compartment.

The Conductor arrived promptly.  
He looked hot and worried.

"De l'eau minérale, s'il vous Plaît." Poirot said, the Conductor smiling at Poirot's use of his own native language.

"Bien, Monsieur." Poirot said as the Conductor returned with the water. 

Perhaps a twinkle in Poirot's eye led the Conductor to unburden himself. 

"La dame américaine—" he said to Poirot. 

"Yes?" Poirot urged the man to continue. 

The Conductor wiped his forehead, and then continued. "Imagine to yourself the time I have had with her! She insists—but insists—that there is a man in her compartment! Figure to yourself, Monsieur. In a space of this size." He swept a hand round to gesture Poirot's own narrow first class compartment. "Where would he conceal himself? I argue with her. I point out that it is impossible. She insists. She woke up, and there was a man there. And how, I ask, did he get out and leave the door bolted behind him? But she will not listen to reason. As though there were not enough to worry us already. This snow—"

"Snow?" Poirot asked, already in dread.  
"But yes, Monsieur. Monsieur has not noticed? The train has stopped. We have run into a snowdrift. Heaven knows how long we shall be here. I remember once being snowed up for seven days."  
"Where are we?" Poirot quickly asked.  
"Between Rannoch and Fort William- in the middle of the Scottish mountains- snow and ice everywhere- we are totally unreachable!"  
"Ah," said Poirot vexedly.

"The nearest station is a little platform for mountaineers, Corrour, we are hoping they will send for help when we do not pass through- but it is unlikely" the Conductor continued.

The Conductor left in his distressed state, having now burdened Poirot with dread too.

Poirot drank a glass of water and composed himself to sleep.

He was just dropping off when something again woke him. This time it was as though something heavy had fallen with a thud against the door to his compartment.  
He sprang up, opened it and looked out. 

Nothing.  
But to some distance down the corridor, a woman wrapped in a scarlet kimono was retreating from him. At the other end, sitting on his little seat, the Conductor was entering up figures on large sheets of paper. Everything was deathly quiet.

"Decidedly I suffer from the nerves," said Poirot and retired to bed again. This time he slept till morning.

When he awoke the train was still at a standstill. He raised a blind and looked out. Snow was piled up almost to the very top, and even on his tip-toes, Poirot could only see past this some heavy banks of snow surrounding the train, these banks of snow quickly turning into the distant mountain and highland landscape.

He glanced at his watch and saw that it was well past nine o'clock. He had not been awakened for an early breakfast, probably due to the incident at hand. 

At a quarter to ten, neat, spruce and dandified as ever, he made his way to the restaurant car, where a chorus of woe was going on.

Any barriers there might have been between the passengers had now completely broken down, even more than last night. All of these strangers were united by a common misfortune. Mrs. Hubbard was loudest in her lamentations. "My daughter said it would be the easiest way in the world. Just sit in the train until I got to Scot-er-land. And now we may be here for days and days," she wailed. "And my steamer sails home just a week away from Southampton. They say we could be stuck here that long! How am I going to catch it now? Why, I can't even wire to cancel my passage. This was supposed to be a short holiday! Oh dear- I'm just too mad to talk about it!" she said, failing to be too mad to talk about it. 

Remus Lupin, the Englishman with the tan suits said that he had urgent business himself in Hogsmeade. He then soothingly expressed a hope that the train might make up time, before eating some chocolate.

it was then Luna- the sheep-like lady who spoke "My friend—her children wait me," said the Scandinavian lady, and wept. "I get no word to them. What they think? They will say bad things have happened to me!" nobody attempted to soothe her. 

"How long shall we be here?" demanded Hermione. "Doesn't anybody know?" Her voice sounded impatient, but Poirot noted that there were no signs of that almost feverish anxiety which she had displayed during the previous delay to the train, in fact, she was quite relaxed.

Then Mrs. Hubbard was off again. "There isn't anybody knows a thing on this train. And nobody's trying to do anything. Just the pack of useless European foreigners that run this service. Why, if this were at home, there'd be someone at least trying to do something!" she shouted out, losing her temper. 

Colonel Weasley then turned to Poirot as he entered the carriage fully, and spoke in careful British-semi-literate French.

"Vous êtes un directeur de la ligne, je crois, Monsieur. Vous pouvez nous dire—"

Smiling, Poirot corrected him. "No, no," he said in English. "It is not I. You confound me with my friend, M. Bouc."  
"Oh, I'm sorry" Colonel Weasley replied. "Not at all. It is most natural. The English know no difference between a Belgian and a Frenchman, especially if they both have moustaches, ah?" Poirot said.

M. Bouc was not present in the restaurant car. Poirot looked about to notice who else was absent.

Princess McGonagall-Dragomiroff was missing, so was her maid, and the aristocratic French couple. Also missing was Riddle, and his valet.

The Swedish lady wiped her eyes.  
"I am foolish," she said. "I am bad to cry. All is for the best, whatever happen."  
This Christian spirit, however, was far from being shared.

"That's all very well," said Draco restlessly, speaking up for the first time. "We may be here for days."  
"What is this country anyway?" demanded Mrs. Hubbard tearfully.

On being told it was the highlands, she said: "Oh! I see- and they couldn't clear the snow from these mountains for us. What can you expect from Brits?!"

"You are the only patient one, Mademoiselle," said Poirot to Miss Hermione Granger, wanting to follow up her change in behaviour from the last time.  
She shrugged her shoulders slightly. "What can one do?" she said coolly.  
"You are a philosopher, Mademoiselle." Poirot joked. 

"That implies a detached attitude. I think my attitude is more selfish. I have learned to save myself all this useless emotion."  
She was speaking more to herself than to him. She was not even looking at him. Her gaze went past him, out of the window to where the snow lay in heavy masses.

"You are a strong character, Mademoiselle," said Poirot gently. "You are, I think, the strongest character amongst us."  
"Oh! no. No, indeed. I know one far, far stronger than I am." Hermione looked at him half-excitedly to say this.  
"And that is—?" Poirot asked inquisitively. 

She seemed suddenly to come to herself, to realise that she was talking to a stranger and foreigner, with whom, until this morning, she had exchanged only half a dozen sentences.

She laughed, a polite but estranging laugh, and looked away again to continue talking.

"Well—that old lady, the Scottish one with the dead Russian husband for instance. You have probably noticed her. A very ugly old lady but rather fascinating. She has only to lift a little finger and ask for something in a semi-polite voice—and the whole train runs. She isn't British or French royalty, and yet here we are in Scotland on a French-run train and she does what she likes and gets anything she asks for. Now, that is strength."

"No- that is power- influence- not strength" Poirot said, "It runs also for my friend M. Bouc," said Poirot. "But that is because he is a director of the company, not because he has a strong character."

Hermione Jean Debenham Granger smiled in reply, pretending not to realise Poirot hadn't fallen for her cover-up. She was never going to mention the Princess originally, Poirot knew as much.

The morning wore away. Several people, Poirot amongst them, remained in the dining-car. The Colonel and Draco had moved to the bar car. Leaving mainly women in Poirot's company. However, the communal life these rich strangers were mostly unused to was felt, at the moment, they utilised it to pass the time better. 

Poirot heard a good deal more about Mrs. Hubbard's daughter, and he heard the lifelong habits of Arthur- Molly's own husband, deceased, from his rising in the morning and commencing breakfast with a cereal to his final rest at night in the bed-socks that Mrs. Hubbard herself had been in the habit of knitting for him.

It was when he was listening to a confused account of the leisurely aims of the sheep-like lady that one of the Wagon Lit attendants, came into the car and stood at his elbow.

"Pardon, Monsieur." he said. 

"Yes?" Poirot replied. 

"The compliments of M. Bouc, and he would be glad if you would be so kind as to come to him for a few minutes."

Poirot rose, uttered excuses to the sheep-like lady and followed the man out of the dining-car. It was not his own carriage's conductor, but a big fair man. He followed his guide down the corridor of his own carriage and along the corridor of the next one. The man tapped at a door, then stood aside to let Poirot enter. The compartment was not M. Bouc's own, even though in his carriage. It was a second-class one—chosen presumably because of its slightly larger size due to them being used for two people instead of one. It certainly gave the impression of being crowded, Poirot thanked God it was not the smaller first class type.

M. Bouc himself was sitting on the small seat in the opposite corner. In the corner next the window, facing him, was a small dark man looking out at the snow. Standing up and quite preventing Poirot from advancing any farther was a big man in blue uniform (the chef de train) and Poirot's own Wagon Lit conductor, the one from the night before.

"Ah! my good friend," cried M. Bouc. "Come in. We have need of you."

The little man in the window shifted along the seat, and Poirot squeezed past: the other two men and sat down facing his friend. The expression on M. Bouc's face gave him, as he would have expressed it, furiousity to think. It was clear that something out of the common had happened.

The attendant who had brought Poirot to the compartment bowed and left them.

"What has occurred?" Poirot asked.  
"You may well ask that. First this snow-this stoppage. And now—" Bouc paused—and a sort of strangled gasp came from the Wagon Lit conductor.  
"And now what?" Poirot furthered.  
"And now a passenger lies dead in his berth—stabbed."

M. Bouc spoke with a kind of calm desperation usually seen in military generals out of ideas.

"A passenger? Which passenger?" Poirot said, already sure of the answer.

"An American. A man called—called—" he consulted some notes in front of him. "Riddle. That is right—Riddle?"

"Yes, Monsieur," the Conductor gulped. Poirot looked at him. He was as white as chalk.

"You had better let that man sit down Bouc," Poirot said. "He may faint otherwise."

The chef de train moved slightly and the Wagon Lit Conductor sank down in the corner and buried his face in his hands.

"Brr!" said Poirot. "What is this? This is serious!"

Bouc began exasperatedly, "Certainly it is serious. To begin with, a murder—that in itself is a calamity of the first water. But not only that, the circumstances are unusual. Here we are, brought to a standstill. We may be here for hours—and not only hours—days! Another circumstance—passing through most countries, owing to border control, we have the police of that country on the train. But in England and Scotland, no. You comprehend?"

"It is a position of great difficulty then," said Poirot.

"There is worse to come. Dr. Constantine—I forgot, I have not introduced you. Dr. Constantine, M. Poirot."

The little dark Greek man bowed, and Poirot returned the bow, he had only seen him once on the journey, on the platform at York.

"Dr. Constantine is of the opinion that death probably occurred between 1 and 2 in the morning."

"It is difficult to speak exactly in these matters," said the doctor, "but I think I can say definitely that death occurred between midnight and three in the morning."

"When was Riddle last seen alive?" asked Poirot.  
"He is known to have been alive at about twenty minutes past midnight, when he spoke to the conductor," said M. Bouc.  
"That is quite correct," said Poirot. "I myself heard what passed. And that is the last thing known?"  
"Yes." Bouc finished with. 

Poirot turned toward the doctor, who continued. "The window of Riddle's compartment was found wide open, leading one to suppose that the murderer escaped that way. But in my opinion that open window is a blind. Anyone departing that way would have left distinct traces in the snow. There were none."

"The crime was discovered—when?" asked Poirot.

There was no immediate answer. 

"Michel!" Bouc exclaimed into the silence. 

The Wagon Lit conductor sat up. His face still looked pale and frightened.

"Please tell M. Poirot exactly what occurred," ordered M. Bouc.

The man spoke somewhat jerkily. "The valet of this Riddle, the Longbottom, he tapped several times at the door this morning. There was no answer. Then, half an hour ago, the restaurant car attendant came. He wanted to know if Monsieur was taking breakfast or not. It was eleven o'clock, you comprehend. "I open the door for him with my key. But there is a chain, too, and that is fastened. There is no answer and it is very still in there, and cold—but cold. With the window open and snow drifting in. I thought the gentleman had had a fit, perhaps. I got the chef de train. We broke the chain and went in. He was—Ah! c'était terrible!"

The Conductor- now known to Poirot as Michel, buried his face in his hands again.

"The door was locked and chained on the inside," said Poirot thoughtfully. "It was not suicide—eh?" 

The Greek doctor gave a sardonic laugh. "Does a man who commits suicide stab himself in ten—twelve— maybe fifteen places?" he asked.

Poirot's eyes opened. "That is great ferocity," he said, and a silence followed.

"It is a woman," said the chef de train, speaking for the first time. "Depend upon it, it was a woman. Only a woman would stab like that."

Dr. Constantine screwed up his face thoughtfully. "She must have been a very strong woman," he said. "It is not my desire to speak technically—that is only confusing; but I can assure you that one or two of the blows were delivered with such force as to drive them through hard belts of bone and muscle."

"It was clearly not a scientific crime," said Poirot.

"It was most unscientific," returned Dr. Constantine. "The blows seem to have been delivered haphazard and at random. Some have glanced off, doing hardly any damage. It is as though somebody had shut their eyes and then in a frenzy struck blindly again and again."

"C'est une femme," said the chef de train again. "Women are like that. When they are enraged they have great strength." He nodded so sagely that everyone suspected a personal and wild experience of his own.

"I have, perhaps, something to contribute to your store of knowledge," said Poirot, ignoring the chef. "The murdered man- Riddle- he spoke to me yesterday. He told me, as far as I was able to understand him, that he was in danger of his life."

" 'Bumped off'—that is the American expression, is it not?" asked M. Bouc. "Then it is not a woman. It is a 'gangster' or a 'gunman.' "

The chef de train looked pained at seeing his completely biased and unprofessional theory come to nought.

"If so," said Poirot, "it seems to have been done very amateurishly." His tone expressed professional disapproval.

"There are several large men on board," said M. Bouc, pursuing his thoughts. "A common-looking man with terrible cheap tan suits. All he does is chew the gum, and eat chocolate, which I believe is not done in shall we say 'good' circles. You know whom I mean?"

The Wagon Lit conductor to whom he had appealed nodded. "Oui, Monsieur, the No. 16. But it cannot have been him. My colleague in this carriage should have seen him enter or leave the compartment."

"He might not. He might not. But we will go into that presently," Bouc said. "The question is, what to do?" He looked at Poirot.

Poirot looked back at him.

"Come, my friend," said M. Bouc. "You comprehend what I am about to ask of you. I know your mental powers. Take command of this investigation! No, no, do not refuse. See, to us it is serious—I speak for the Compagnie Internationale des Wagons Lits. By the time the Scottish police arrive, how simple if we can present them with the solution! Otherwise delays, annoyances, a million and one inconveniences. Perhaps, who knows, serious annoyance to innocent persons. Instead—you solve the mystery! We say, 'A murder has occurred—this is the criminal!'"

"And suppose I do not solve it?" Poirot suggested, once again casting false modesty around. 

"Ah, mon cher!" M. Bouc's voice became positively caressing. "I know your reputation. I know something of your methods. This is the ideal case for you. To look up the antecedents of all these people, to discover their bona fides— their lies- all that takes time and endless inconvenience. But have I not heard you say often that to solve a case a man has only to lie back in his chair and think? Do that. Interview the passengers on the train, view the body, examine what clues there are, and then—well, I have faith in you! I am assured that it is no idle boast of yours. Lie back and think—use (as I have heard you say so often) the little grey cells of the mind—and you will know!"

Bouc leaned forward, looking affectionately at the detective.

"Your faith touches me, my friend," said Poirot emotionally. "As you say, this cannot be a difficult case. I myself last night—but we will not speak of that now. In truth, this problem intrigues me. I was reflecting, not half an hour ago, that many hours of boredom lay ahead whilst we are stuck here. And now—a problem lies ready to my hand."

"You accept then?" said M. Bouc eagerly.

"C'est entendu. Assuredly. You place the matter in my hands."  
"Good—we are all at your service."

"To begin with, I should like to make a plan of the sleeping carriages, with a note of the people who occupied each of the compartments, and I should also like to see their passports and their tickets." 

"Michel will get you those passports and tickets, I can give you the information of the coaches."  
The Wagon Lit conductor left the compartment as Bouc spoke.

"What passengers are there on the train?" asked Poirot.

"In this coach there are eight compartments. Only five occupied. In 16 is Longbottom and Lupin, the next occupied compartment is 13, that is Dr. Constantine's. In 11 is Princess McGonagall-Dragomiroff, in 10 her maid- their compartments adjoin to one another. They have luggage stored in the standard seating car too, the Princess ordered it. The only occupied compartment left is 9, my compartment".

Poirot began to draw a diagram and label it with this information.  
"And my carriage?" he asked. 

"Ah yes, in compartment 1 is you dear friend. The carriage is full. In number 2 we have our victim, in the adjoining compartment, we have the talkative lady- Mrs. Hubbard. Unfortunately their compartments adjoin, and I am told the lady is not happy with that, but nobody thought to ask her to swap with his secretary. In 4 we have Draco, the victim's aforementioned secretary, in 5 we have the Colonel Weasley, in 7 and 6, also adjoining, we have the French couple- the Count and Countess Delacour. Finally in compartment 8 we have the beautiful Hermione Granger and a Miss Luna Lovegood". 

"And that is everyone?" Poirot checked. 

"Yes," Bouc replied, "all but the two conductors, the chef de train, and the restaurant attendants,"

Bouc added, "Between the sleeping carriages are the two ordinary carriages, the staff may rest here between meals and duties, but these do not concern us, since they were locked after dinner had been served last night. The conductors remain in their allocated carriages. Other than this there are the bar and dining cars forward of yours, which again are also locked off. The passengers themselves can only access their own sleeping cars, and the toilets in the standard coaches when escorted by their conductor."

"Then it seems," said Poirot slowly, "as though we must look for our murderer in the sleeping coaches." He turned to the doctor. "That is what you were hinting, I think?" The Greek nodded, Poirot then continued. "Around midnight- we ran into this snowdrift. No one can have left the train since then."

M. Bouc agreed solemnly, "The murderer is with us—on the train now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Roles Characters Fill:
> 
> Hercule Poirot - As Himself.
> 
> Dr. Constantine - As Himself.
> 
> The Conductor - As Himself.
> 
> M. Bouc. - As Himself.
> 
> Hermione Granger - As Mary Hermione Debenham.
> 
> Ron Weasley - As Colonel Arbuthnot.
> 
> William 'Bill' Weasley - As Count Andrenyi.
> 
> Fleur Delacour - As Countess Helena Maria Andrenyi (nee Goldenberg).
> 
> Molly Weasley - As Mrs. Hubbard/Linda Arden (Goldenberg).
> 
> Draco Malfoy - As Hector MacQueen.
> 
> Minerva McGonagall - As Princess Natalia Dragomiroff.
> 
> Sybil Trelawney - As Hildegarde Schmidt.
> 
> Luna Lovegood - As Greta Ohlsson.
> 
> Remus Lupin - As Cyrus Bethman Hardman.
> 
> Neville Longbottom - As Edward Henry Masterman.
> 
> Tom Riddle/Lord Voldemort - As Ratchett/Casetti: The Murder Victim.
> 
> Nymphadora Tonks - As the nursemaid, Susanne (DECEASED). 
> 
> Harry Potter - As Colonel Armstrong (DECEASED).
> 
> Ginevra Potter - As Sonia Armstrong (DECEASED).
> 
> Lily Luna Potter - As Daisy Armstrong (DECEASED).


	7. The First Interview

"First of all," said Poirot after he received the passports and tickets, "I should like a word or two with young Draco Malfoy. He may be able to give us valuable information."  
"Certainly," said M. Bouc. He turned to the chef de train. "Get Mr. Malfoy to come here."

The chef de train left the carriage.

Bouc then turned to the Conductor, thanking him for the delivery of the passport and ticket bundle. "Thank you, Michel. It would be best now, I think, if you were to go back to your post. We will take your evidence formally later."

"Very good, Monsieur," said Michel, and in his turn left the carriage.

"After we have seen young Malfoy," said Poirot, "perhaps the doctor will come with me to the dead man's compartment."  
"Certainly." Dr. Constantine said. 

"After we have finished there—" But at this moment the chef de train returned with Draco Malfoy.

Bouc rose. "We are a little cramped here," he said pleasantly. "Take my seat, Monsieur Malfoy. Monsieur Poirot will sit opposite you"  
He turned to the chef de train. "Clear all the people out of the restaurant car, to their compartments or the bar" he said, "and let it be left free for M. Poirot. You will conduct your other interviews there, mon cher?"

"It would be the most convenient, yes," agreed Poirot.

Draco Malfoy had stood looking from one to the other, not quite following the rapid flow of French- the language they had used in each other's company until now.

"Qu'est-ce qu'il y a?" Draco began laboriously. "Pourquoi—?"

With a vigorous gesture Poirot motioned him to the seat in the corner. Malfoy took it and began once more. "Pourquoi—?" Then checking himself and relapsing into his own tongue- English: "Hey- what's up on this train? Has something else happened?" He looked from one man to another after saying this.

Poirot nodded, somewhat enjoying the drama. "Exactly. Something has happened. Prepare yourself for a shock. Your employer, Riddle, is dead!"

Malfoy's mouth pursed itself into a whistle. Except that his eyes grew a shade brighter, he showed no signs of shock or distress.  
"So they got him after all," he said.  
"What exactly do you mean by that phrase, Mr. Malfoy?" Poirot replied confusedly.

The younger man hesitated, so Poirot went on.

"You are assuming," said Poirot, "that your employer was murdered?"

"Wasn't he?" This time Malfoy did show surprise. "Why, yes," he said slowly. "That's just what I did think. Do you mean he just died in his sleep? Why, the old man was as tough as—as tough—" He stopped, at a loss for a simile.

"No, no," said Poirot. "Your assumption was quite right. This Mr. Riddle was murdered. Stabbed. But I should like to know why you were so sure it was murder, and not just well- a death."

Malfoy hesitated again. "I must get this clear," he said. "Who exactly are you? And where do you come in?"

"For today, and for some time I expect, I represent the Compagnie Internationale des Wagons Lits." Poirot paused, then added, "I am a detective. My name is Hercule Poirot."

If he expected an effect he did not get one. Malfoy said merely, "Oh? yes?" and waited for him to go on.

"You know the name perhaps?" Poirot said hopefully.  
"Why, it does seem kind of familiar" Malfoy said, Poirot's eyes glistening in happiness. 

"Only," Malfoy added, "I just always thought it was a woman's dressmaker."

Hercule Poirot looked at him with distaste. "It is incredible!" he said.

"What's incredible?" Malfoy asked.  
"Nothing. Let us advance with the matter in hand. I want you to tell me, Malfoy, all that you know about the dead man. You were not related to him?"  
"No. I am—well-was—his secretary."  
"For how long have you held that post?"  
"Just over a year." Malfoy said. 

"I met Mr. Riddle just over a year ago when I was in Persia—"  
Poirot interrupted him. "What were you doing there Monsieur?"

"I had come over from New York to look into an oil concession. I don't suppose you want to hear all about that. My friends and I had been let in rather badly over it. Mr. Riddle was in the same hotel. He had just had a row with his previous secretary. After a brief discussion, he offered me the job and I took it. I was at a loose end and glad to find a well-paid job ready made, as it were."

"And since then?" Poirot asked.  
"We've travelled about. Mr. Riddle wanted to see the world. He was hampered by knowing no languages. I acted more as a courier and guide than as a secretary. It was a pleasant life."

"Now tell me as much as you can about your employer." Poirot began writing notes as he listened.  
The young British-American man shrugged his shoulders in response. A perplexed expression passed over his face.

"That's not so easy."

"What was his full name then?"  
"Tom Marvolo Riddle..." Malfoy replied.  
"He was an American citizen?"  
"Yes." Malfoy said sharpish. 

"And so, what part of America did he come from?"  
"I don't know." Malfoy said at a loss for a better reply. 

"Well, just tell me what you do know." Poirot said.  
"The actual truth is, Mr. Poirot, that I know nothing at all! Mr. Riddle never spoke of himself or of his life in America."

"Why do you think that was?" Poirot asked, half-frustrated.  
"I don't know. I imagined that he might be ashamed of his beginnings. Some men are."  
"Does that strike you as a satisfactory solution?" Poirot tried digging further, he felt that the young man was holding back. 

"Frankly, it doesn't."

Poirot pressed the point.

"You must have formed some theory, Mr. Malfoy." 

A short silence passed as Malfoy gathered his thoughts into an answer.

"Well. Okay. Yes, I did. For one thing, I don't believe Riddle was his real name. I think he left America definitely in order to escape someone or something. I think he was successful—until a few weeks ago."  
"And then?" Poirot said, the words leaving his mouth too urgently perhaps. 

"He began to get letters—threatening letters."  
"Did you see them?"

"Yes. It was my business to attend to his correspondence. The first letter came a fortnight ago."  
"Were these letters destroyed?" Poirot asked, concerned about the presence of evidence.

"No, I think I've got a couple still in my files— minus some I know Riddle tore up in a rage. Shall I get them for you?"  
"If you would be so good."

Malfoy left the compartment. He returned a few minutes later and laid down two sheets of rather dirty notepaper before Poirot.

The first letter ran as follows:

"Thought you'd double-cross us and get away with it, did You?  
Not on your life. We're out to G E T you, Riddle, and we WILL get you!"

There was no signature.

With no comment on the first beyond raised eyebrows, Poirot soon picked up the second letter.

"We're going to take You for a ride, Riddle. Some. Time. Soon. We're going to G E T you—see?"

Again, there was no signature. 

Poirot laid the letters down.

"The style is monotonous!" he said. "More so than the handwriting." Malfoy stared at him.

"You would not observe," said Poirot pleasantly. "It requires the eye of one used to such things. This letter was not written by one person. Two or more persons wrote it—each writing one word or sentence at a time. Also, the letters are printed, that makes the task of identifying the handwriting much more difficult. And yet... the style still differs. See the capital Y, followed by the use of the lowercase one?" 

He paused, then said:

"Did you know that your employer had applied for help to me?"  
"To you?" Malfoy's astonished tone told Poirot quite certainly that the young man had genuinely not known of it.

The detective nodded.

"Yes. He was alarmed. Tell me, how did he act when he received the first letter?"

Malfoy hesitated, and this time it was different to the last, as if he hadn't expected the question.

"It's difficult to say. He—he—passed it off with a laugh in that quiet way of his. But somehow—" he gave a slight shiver—"I felt that there was a good deal going on underneath the quietness."

Poirot nodded. Then he asked an even more unexpected question.

"Mr. Malfoy, will you tell me, quite honestly, exactly how you regarded your employer? Did you like him?"

Draco Malfoy took more than a moment or two before replying.

"No," he said at last. "I did not."

Poirot wondered for a second too. Malfoy could apparently read his employer's 'way of his' but did not know him well, or like him.

"Why?" Poirot pressed. 

"I can't exactly say. He was always quite pleasant in his manner." He paused, then said: "I'll tell you the truth, Mr. Poirot. I strongly disliked and distrusted him. He was, I am sure, a cruel and dangerous man. I must admit, though, that I have no reasons to advance for my opinion."

"Thank you, Mr. Malfoy. One further question: when did you last see Mr. Riddle alive?"  
"Last evening about—" he thought for a minute—"ten o'clock, I should say. I went into his compartment to take down some memoranda from him."

"Oh, and on what subject?"  
"Some tiles and antique pottery that he bought in Persia. What had been delivered was not what he had purchased. There has been a long, vexatious correspondence on the subject since I was first employed."  
"And that was the last time Mr. Riddle was seen alive?"  
"Yes, I suppose so, certainly by me anyway."

"And have you seen him dead?" Poirot asked, just to test for a reaction.  
"No Mr. Poirot! No!" Nor do I wish to" the younger man replied. 

"Do you know when Mr. Riddle received the first and last of these threatening letters?"  
"The first when we left Istanbul on the Orient Express. The last on the morning of the day we left the European continent." Malfoy managed to answer.

"There is one more question I must ask you, Mr. Malfoy. Were you on good terms with your employer?" Poirot asked this with some force, and the younger man's eyes twinkled suddenly.  
"This is where I'm supposed to go all goosefleshy down the back huh? In the words of a best seller, 'You've nothing on me!' Riddle and I were on perfectly good terms all things considered."

"Perhaps, Mr. Malfoy, you will give me your full name and your address?"

Malfoy gave his full name—Draco Lucius Malfoy—and two addresses, one in New York, and one in the English countryside.

Poirot leaned back against the cushions.

"That is all for the present," he said. "I should be obliged if you would keep the matter of Mr. Riddle's death to yourself for a little time."

"His valet, Longbottom, will have to know." Malfoy said anxiously, "He probably knows already," said Poirot drily in immediate response. "If so, try to get him to hold his tongue."  
"That oughtn't to be difficult. He's a pure Britisher and, as he calls it, he 'keeps to himself.' He has a low opinion of Americans, and no opinion at all of any other nationality."

"Thank you, Mr. Malfoy." Poirot said, dismissing the unnecessary information about the valet. 

The so-called British-American left the carriage.

"Well?" demanded M. Bouc. "You believe what he says, this young man?"

"He seems mostly honest and straightforward. He did not pretend to any affection for his employer, as he probably would have done had he been involved in any way. It is true, Mr. Riddle did not tell him that he had tried to enlist my services and failed, but I do not think that that is really a suspicious circumstance. I fancy Riddle was a gentleman who kept his own counsel on every possible occasion."

"So you pronounce one person at least innocent of the crime," said Bouc jovially.

Poirot cast on him a look of reproach.

"Me? Mon cher! I suspect everybody till the last minute!" he said. "All the same, I must admit that I cannot see this sober, long-headed Malfoy losing his head and stabbing his victim twelve or fifteen times. It is not in accord with his psychology—not at all." Poirot said plainly. 

"I agree wholeheartedly Monsieur Poirot" Dr. Constantine chirped into the matter. 

"Indeed," said Bouc thoughtfully. "That is the act of a man driven almost crazy with a frenzied hate or vengeance—it suggests a rather different temperament. Or else it suggests, as our friend the chef de train insisted—a similarly frenzied woman."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Roles Characters Fill:
> 
> Hercule Poirot - As Himself.
> 
> Dr. Constantine - As Himself.
> 
> The Conductor - As Himself.
> 
> M. Bouc. - As Himself.
> 
> Hermione Granger - As Mary Hermione Debenham.
> 
> Ron Weasley - As Colonel Arbuthnot.
> 
> William 'Bill' Weasley - As Count Andrenyi.
> 
> Fleur Delacour - As Countess Helena Maria Andrenyi (nee Goldenberg).
> 
> Molly Weasley - As Mrs. Hubbard/Linda Arden (Goldenberg).
> 
> Draco Malfoy - As Hector MacQueen.
> 
> Minerva McGonagall - As Princess Natalia Dragomiroff.
> 
> Sybil Trelawney - As Hildegarde Schmidt.
> 
> Luna Lovegood - As Greta Ohlsson.
> 
> Remus Lupin - As Cyrus Bethman Hardman.
> 
> Neville Longbottom - As Edward Henry Masterman.
> 
> Tom Riddle/Lord Voldemort - As Ratchett/Casetti: The Murder Victim.
> 
> Nymphadora Tonks - As the nursemaid, Susanne (DECEASED). 
> 
> Harry Potter - As Colonel Armstrong (DECEASED).
> 
> Ginevra Potter - As Sonia Armstrong (DECEASED).
> 
> Lily Luna Potter - As Daisy Armstrong (DECEASED).


	8. The Body, and The First Real Evidence.

Followed by Dr. Constantine, Poirot made his way to the next coach and to the compartment occupied by the murdered man. The conductor came and unlocked the door for them with his key.  
The two men passed inside. Poirot turned inquiringly to his companion.

"How much has been disarranged in this compartment Doctor?"  
"Nothing has been touched sir. I was careful not to move the body in making my examination."

Poirot nodded. He looked round him.

The first thing that struck the senses was the intense cold. The window was pushed down as far as it would go, and the blind was drawn up. Snow was not only piled up to the window, but starting to enter Riddle's compartment. 

"Brrr," observed Poirot.

The other smiled appreciatively.

"I did not like to close it," the Greek Doctor said.

Poirot examined the window carefully.

"You are right in what you said before," Poirot announced. "Nobody left the carriage this way. Possibly the open window was intended to suggest that somebody did; but if so, the snow has defeated the murderer's intention."

He examined the frame of the window carefully. Taking a small case from his pocket he blew a little powder over the frame in a patch lacking snow.

"No fingerprints at all," he said. "That means it: either has been wiped, or the snow has melted the evidence away. Ah-well, if there had been fingerprints they would have told us very little. They would have been those of Mr. Riddle or his valet, or the Conductor. I am sure of this. Criminals do not make mistakes of that kind nowadays".

The doctor watched Detective Hercule Poirot curiously, he was watching an artist at work after all.

"And that being so," Poirot added cheerfully, "we might as well shut the window. Positively it is the cold storage in here!"

He suited the action to the word and then turned his attention for the first time to the motionless figure lying in the bunk.

Tom Riddle lay on his back. His green striped pyjama jacket, stained with rusty patches, had been unbuttoned and thrown back.

"I had to see the nature of the wounds, you see," explained the doctor.

Poirot nodded. He bent over the body. Finally he straightened himself with a slight grimace.  
"This is not pretty," he said. "Someone must have stood there and stabbed him again and again. How many wounds are there exactly?"

"I make it twelve. One or two are so slight as to be practically scratches. On the other hand, at least three would be capable of causing death."  
Something in the doctor's tone caught Poirot's attention. He looked at him sharply. The little Greek was standing staring down at the body with a puzzled frown.

"Something strikes you as odd, does it not?" the detective asked gently.  
"Speak, my friend." he continued, "There is something here that puzzles you?"

"You are right," acknowledged the other carefully.

"What is it doctor?"

"You see these two wounds—here and here—" He pointed. "They are deep. Each cut must have severed blood vessels—and yet the edges do not gape. They have not bled as one would have expected."

Poirot nodded and the doctor carried on in confidence. 

"That the man was already dead—some little time dead—when they were delivered. But that is surely absurd."

"It would seem so," said Poirot thoughtfully. "Unless our murderer figured to himself that he had not accomplished the job properly and came back to make quite sure—but that is manifestly absurd! Have you considered anything else?"

"Well, just one thing Monsieur. You see this wound here—under the right arm—near the right shoulder. Take this pencil of mine. Could you deliver such a blow?"

Poirot poised his hand. 

"Précisément," Poirot said. "I see. With the right hand it is exceedingly difficult, almost impossible. One would have to strike backhanded, as it were. But if the blow were struck with the left hand—"

"Exactly, Monsieur Poirot. That blow was almost certainly struck with the left hand."

"So that our murderer is left-handed? No, it is more difficult than that, is it not?" Poirot theorised. 

"As you will think Poirot. Some of these other blows are just as obviously right-handed."

"Two people. We are back at two people again," murmured the detective. He asked abruptly: "Was the electric light on?"

"It is difficult to say. You see, it is turned off by the Conductor every morning about ten o'clock."

"The switches will tell us," said Poirot.

Poirot quickly examined the switch of the top light and also the roll-back bedhead light. The former was turned off. The latter was closed. "Eh bien," he said thoughtfully. "We have here a hypothesis of the First and the Second Murderer- as the great Shakespeare would put it. The First Murderer stabbed his victim and left the compartment, turning off the light. The Second Murderer came in in the dark, did not see that his or her work had been done, and stabbed at least twice at a dead body. Que pensez-vous de ça?"

"Magnificent!" said the little doctor with enthusiasm.

The other's eyes twinkled.

"You think so? I am glad. It sounded to me a little like the nonsense."

"What other explanation can there be?" the Doctor began. 

"That is just what I am asking myself. Have we here a coincidence, or what? Are there any other inconsistencies, such as would point to two people being concerned?"

The doctor replied after a moment of thought, "I think I can say yes. Some of these blows, as I have already said, point to a weakness—a lack of strength or a lack of determination. They are feeble, glancing blows. But this one here—and this one—"

Again he pointed. 

"Great strength was needed for those blows. They have penetrated the muscle!"  
"They were, in your opinion, delivered by a man?" Poirot asked.  
"Most certainly." the doctor replied.

"Doctor, you are sure they could not have been delivered by a woman?"

The doctor again paused in thought, and hummed before continuing, "A young, vigorous, athletic woman might have struck them, especially if she were in the grip of a strong emotion; but it is in my opinion highly unlikely, especially considering the passengers I have seen."

Poirot was silent a moment or two.

The doctor asked anxiously, "You understand my point?"  
"Perfectly," said Poirot. "The matter begins to clear itself up wonderfully! The murderer was a man of great strength—he was feeble—it was a woman—it was a right-handed person—it was a left-handed person. Ah! c'est rigolo, tout ça!" 

Poirot then spoke with sudden anger.

"And the victim—what does he do in all this? Does he cry out? Does he struggle? Does he defend himself?"

He slipped his hand under the pillow and drew out the bone-like wand which Riddle had shown him the day before.

"Fully accessible, you see," he said.

"Ah," the doctor replied, "so you know of this man's -er- capabilities". 

"Assuredly I do doctor, and I am sure we are not the only ones! Miss Granger, the Colonel, and the Princess must know at least!" he continued, "Bravery and good thought, that is what was needed in this crime!" 

"Does your friend- the good M. Bouc know?" Constantine then asked Poirot. 

"No- I should think not. Nor do the conductors, or the chef de train, or any of the staff working for this company as far as I know, they simply provide passage at a high-price." Poirot finished. 

They looked round them. 

Tom Riddle's day clothing was hanging from the hooks on the wall. Unbelievably black suits and dark uncomfortably green ties. 

On the small table formed by the lid of the wash basin were various objects. False teeth in a glass of water. Another glass, empty. A bottle of mineral water. A large flask. An ash-tray containing the butt of a cigar and some charred fragments of paper; also two burnt matches.

The doctor picked up the empty glass and sniffed it.

"Here is the explanation of the victim's lack of action," he said quietly.  
"You mean- he was drugged?" Poirot said.  
The doctor nodded. 

"This evil man- simply drugged? Ah, how the wizards have lost themselves!" Poirot mused. 

Poirot then picked up the two matches and scrutinised them carefully.

"You have a clue then?" demanded the little doctor eagerly.  
"Those two matches are of different shapes," said Poirot. "One is flatter than the other. You see?"  
"The flatter is the kind you get on the train," said the doctor. "In paper covers." 

Poirot was feeling in the pockets of Riddle's clothing. Presently he pulled out a box of matches- it was the one he had taken from Poirot. He compared them carefully with the burnt ones.

"The rounder one is a match struck by Mr. Riddle, they were once my own" he said. "Let us see if he had also the flatter kind."

But a further search showed no other matches.

Poirot's eyes were darting about the compartment. They were bright and sharp like a bird's. One felt that nothing could escape their scrutiny. With a little exclamation he bent and picked-up something from the floor.

It was a square of cambric. In the centre was a large embroidered initial—M.

"A woman's handkerchief," said the doctor. "Our friend the chef de train was right. There is a woman concerned in this."

"Let us say it is a woman's for now. Most conveniently she leaves her handkerchief behind!" said Poirot. "Exactly as it happens in the books and on the films—and to make things even easier for us, it is marked with an initial!"

"What a stroke of luck for us!" exclaimed the doctor.

"Is it not?" said Poirot. Something in his tone surprised the doctor, but before he could ask for elucidation Poirot had made another dive onto the floor.

This time he held out on the palm of his hand—a pipe-cleaner.

"It is perhaps the property of Mr. Riddle?" suggested the doctor.  
"There was no pipe in any of his pockets, and no tobacco or tobacco pouch, just cigars." Poirot replied.

"Hmm- Then it is a clue?" the doctor asked.  
"Oh! decidedly. And again dropped most conveniently. A masculine clue, this time, you note! One cannot complain of having no clues in this case. There are clues here in abundance. By the way, what have you done with the weapon?"

The doctor scanned the room once more to father confidence in his next statement, "There was no sign of any weapon. The murderer must have taken it away with him."  
"I wonder why," mused Poirot.

"Ah!" The doctor had been delicately exploring the pyjama pockets of the dead man. "I overlooked this," he said. "I unbuttoned the jacket and threw it straight back."

From the breast pocket he brought out a gold watch. The case was dented savagely, and the hands pointed to a quarter past one.

"You see?" cried Constantine eagerly. "This gives us the hour of the crime. It agrees with my calculations. Between one and two in the morning is what I said, and probably about half past one o'clock I thought, though it is difficult to be so exact in these matters. Eh bien, here is confirmation. A quarter past one. That was the hour of the crime."

"It is possible, yes. It is certainly possible." Poirot replied after a pause. 

The doctor looked at him curiously and frowned slightly. "You will pardon me, M. Poirot, but I do not quite understand you."

"I do not understand myself," said Poirot. "I understand nothing at all. And, as you perceive, it worries me." He sighed and bent over the little table examining the charred fragment of paper. He murmured to himself, "What I need at this moment is an old-fashioned woman's hat-box."

Dr. Constantine was at a loss to know what to make of this singular remark. In any case Poirot gave him no time for questions. Opening the door into the corridor, he called for the conductor. The man arrived at a run.

"How many women are there in this coach?" the doctor asked.

The conductor counted on his fingers. "There are six in total, Monsieur. The old American lady, a Scandinavian lady, the young English lady, the Countess Delacour, and Madame la Princesse McGonagall Dragomiroff oh- and but of course! Her maid."

Poirot considered.

"They all have hat-boxes, yes?" Poirot asked.  
"Yes, Monsieur." the carriage's conductor replied.  
"Then bring me—let me see—yes, the Scandinavian lady's and that of the Princess's-maid. Those two are the only hope. You will tell them it is a customs regulation—something—anything that occurs to you."

"That will be all right, Monsieur. Neither lady is in her compartment at the moment."  
"Then be quick." Poirot smiled. 

The conductor departed. He returned with the two hatboxes. Poirot opened that of the maid, and tossed it aside. Then he opened the Scandinavian lady's and uttered an exclamation of satisfaction. Removing the hats carefully, he disclosed round humps of wire-netting.

"Ah, here is what we need! "About fifteen years ago hat-boxes were made like this. You skewered through the hat with a hatpin on to this hump of wire-netting."

As he spoke this to the doctor he was skillfully removing two of the attached humps. Then he repacked the hat-box and told the conductor to return both boxes where they belonged.  
When the door was shut once more he turned to his companion.

"See you, my dear doctor, me, I am not one to rely upon the expert procedure. It is the psychology I seek, not the fingerprint or the cigarette ash. But in this case I would welcome a little scientific assistance. This compartment is full of clues, but can I be sure that those clues are really what they seem to be?"

"I do not quite understand you, M. Poirot." the doctor said.

"Well, to give you an example—we find a handkerchief. Did a woman drop it? Did a man? Or did someone committing the crime, say to himself: 'I will make this look like a woman's crime. I will stab my enemy an unnecessary number of times, making some of the blows feeble and ineffective, and I will drop this handkerchief where no one can miss it'? That is one possibility. Then there is another. Did a woman kill him, and did she deliberately drop a pipe-cleaner to make it look like a man's work? Or are we seriously to suppose that two people, were separately concerned, and that each was so careless as to drop a clue to his or her identity? It is a little too much of a coincidence, that!"

"But where does the hat-box come in?" asked the doctor, still puzzled.

"Ah! I am coming to that. As I say, these clues—the watch stopped at a quarter past one, the handkerchief, the pipe-cleaner—they may be genuine, or they may be faked. As to that I cannot yet tell. But there is one clue here which—though again I may be wrong—I believe has not been faked. I mean this flat match, le docteur. I believe that that match was used by the murderer, not by Mr. Riddle. It was used to burn an incriminating paper of some kind. Possibly a note. If so, there was something in that note, some mistake, some error, that left a possible clue to the assailant. I am going to try to discover what that something was."

He went out of the compartment and returned a few moments later with a small spirit stove, the type often used when camping, and a pair of dainty curling-tongs.

"I use them for the moustaches," he said, referring to the latter. The doctor watched him with great interest. Poirot flattened out the two humps of wire, and with great care wriggled the charred scrap of  
paper on to one of them. He clapped the other on top of it and then, holding both pieces together with the tongs, held the whole thing over the flame of the spirit-lamp.

"It is a very makeshift affair, this," he said over his shoulder. "Let us hope that it will answer our purpose."

The doctor watched the proceedings attentively. The metal began to glow. Suddenly he saw faint indications of letters. Words formed themselves slowly-words of fire. It was a very tiny scrap. Only three words and part of another showed.

"—member little Lily Potter?" 

"Ah!" Poirot gave a sharp exclamation upon reading this.

"It tells you something?" asked the doctor.

Poirot's eyes were shining. He laid down the tongs carefully. "Yes," he said. "I know the dead man's real name. I know why he had to leave America."

"What was his name?" the doctor said excitedly. 

"Voldemort. The Lord Voldemort" Poirot said, with a delicate smile of relief at finding such a vital clue. 

"Voldemort?" Constantine knitted his brows. "It brings back to me something. Some years ago. I cannot remember. ... It was a case in America, was it not?"

"Yes," said Poirot. "A case in America." 

Further than that Poirot was not disposed to be communicative. He looked round him as he went on:

"We will go into all that presently. Let us first make sure that we have seen all there is to be seen here." 

Quickly and deftly he went once more through the pockets of the dead man's clothes but found nothing there of interest. He tried the communicating door which led through to the next compartment, Mrs. Molly Hubbard's. But it was bolted on the other side.

"There is one thing that I do not understand," said Dr. Constantine. "If the murderer truly did not escape through the window, and if this communicating door was bolted on the other side, and if the door into the corridor was not only locked on the inside but chained, how then did the murderer leave the compartment?"

"That is what the audience says when a person bound hand and foot is shut into a cabinet, skewered with swords, and then disappears."

"You mean—?" the doctor asked. 

"I mean," explained Poirot, "that if the murderer intended us to believe that he had escaped by way of the window, he would naturally make it appear that the other two exits were impossible. Like the 'disappearing person' in the cabinet, it is a trick. And that is forgetting that real magic may be at work here. It is our business to find out how the trick- or tricks are done.

He locked the communicating door on their side—"in case," he said, "the excellent Mrs. Hubbard should take it into her head to acquire first-hand details of the crime to write to her daughter."

He looked round once more.

"There is nothing more to do here, I think. Let us rejoin M. Bouc."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Roles Characters Fill:
> 
> Hercule Poirot - As Himself.
> 
> Dr. Constantine - As Himself.
> 
> The Conductor - As Himself.
> 
> M. Bouc. - As Himself.
> 
> Hermione Granger - As Mary Hermione Debenham.
> 
> Ron Weasley - As Colonel Arbuthnot.
> 
> William 'Bill' Weasley - As Count Andrenyi.
> 
> Fleur Delacour - As Countess Helena Maria Andrenyi (nee Goldenberg).
> 
> Molly Weasley - As Mrs. Hubbard/Linda Arden (Goldenberg).
> 
> Draco Malfoy - As Hector MacQueen.
> 
> Minerva McGonagall - As Princess Natalia Dragomiroff.
> 
> Sybil Trelawney - As Hildegarde Schmidt.
> 
> Luna Lovegood - As Greta Ohlsson.
> 
> Remus Lupin - As Cyrus Bethman Hardman.
> 
> Neville Longbottom - As Edward Henry Masterman.
> 
> Tom Riddle/Lord Voldemort - As Ratchett/Casetti: The Murder Victim.
> 
> Nymphadora Tonks - As the nursemaid, Susanne (DECEASED). 
> 
> Harry Potter - As Colonel Armstrong (DECEASED).
> 
> Ginevra Potter - As Sonia Armstrong (DECEASED).
> 
> Lily Luna Potter - As Daisy Armstrong (DECEASED).


	9. The Potter Tragedy

They found Bouc in his compartment finishing an omelette.

"I thought it best to have lunch served immediately in the restaurant car," he said. "Afterwards it will be cleared and Poirot can conduct his examination of the passengers there. In the meantime I have ordered them to bring us three some food here." 

"An excellent idea," said Poirot.

None of the three men actually felt hungry, but the meal was soon eaten; and not till they were sipping their coffee did Bouc mention the subject that was occupying all their minds.

"Eh bien?" he asked.

"Eh bien, I have discovered the identity of the victim. I know why it was imperative he should leave America." Poirot replied simply.  
"Do you remember reading of the Potter baby? This is the man who murdered little Lily Luna Potter. The evil man Voldemort." Poirot added.

"I recall it now. A shocking affair—though I cannot remember the details." Bouc replied.

And so Poirot started to give them. Having to purposely miss out details like Harry Potter's long career as an Auror. 

"Harry Potter was an Englishman. He married the daughter of Margaret Prewett, the most famous English stage-actress of her day. They lived in America and had three children— the youngest, a girl whom they idolised is at the centre of all this. When she was three years old she was kidnapped, and an impossibly high sum demanded as the price of her return. I will not weary you with all the intricacies that followed. I will come to the moment when, after the parents had paid over the enormous sum of two hundred thousand dollars, the child's dead body was discovered; it had been dead for at least a fortnight. Public indignation on both sides of the Atlantic ocean rose to fever point. And there was much worse to follow. Mrs. Ginevra Potter was expecting another baby. Following the shock of the discovery, she gave birth prematurely to a dead child, and herself died. Her broken-hearted husband killed himself not long after."

"Mon Dieu, what a tragedy. I think I remember now," said M. Bouc. "There was also another death, if I remember rightly?"

"Yes, an unfortunate nursemaid- a Miss Tonks I believe. The police were convinced that she had some knowledge of the crime. They refused to believe her hysterical denials. Finally, in a fit of despair the poor girl threw herself from a window and was killed. It was proved just a day afterwards that she had been absolutely innocent of any complicity in the crime." Poirot replied.

"It is not good to think of," said M. Bouc.

"About six months later, this man Riddle- Voldemort, was arrested as the head of the gang who had kidnapped the child. They had used the same methods in the past on other families. If the police seemed likely to get on their trail, they killed their prisoner, hid the body, and continued to extract as much money as possible before the crime was discovered".

Poirot continued, somewhat harsh in tone, "Now, I will make clear to you this, my friend. Voldemort was the man! But by means of the enormous -er- wealth he had piled up, and owing to the secret hold he had over various persons, he was acquitted on some technical inaccuracy. Notwithstanding that, he would have been lynched by the populace had he not been clever enough to give them the slip. It is now clear to me what happened. He used a different name and left America. Since then he has been a gentleman of leisure, travelling abroad and living on his ill-gotten gains."

"Ah! quel animal!" M. Bouc's tone was redolent of heartfelt disgust. "I cannot regret that he is dead—not at all!"

Poirot admitted "I agree with you."

"Tout de même, it is not necessary that he should be killed on the Hogwarts Express. There are other places." Bouc added.

Poirot smiled a little. He realised that M. Bouc was biased in the matter.

"The question we have now to ask ourselves is this," Poirot said. "Is this murder the work of some rival gang whom Riddle had double-crossed in the past, as Malfoy's letters suggest, or is it in fact an act of private vengeance?"

He explained his discovery of the few words on the charred fragment of paper.

"If I am right in my assumption, then, the letter was burnt by the murderer. Why? Because it mentioned the name 'Potter,' which is the clue to the mystery." Poirot said.  
"Are there any members of the Potter family living?" Bouc then asked.

"That, unfortunately, I do not know. I think I remember reading that Mrs. Potter had many family members through her mother, but I do not know her maiden name, or their names therefore, their other children are certainly still too young to be anywhere on board this train."

Poirot went on to relate the joint conclusions of himself and Dr. Constantine. Leaving out the wand. 

Bouc brightened at the mention of the broken watch.

"That seems to give us the time of the crime very exactly." Bouc agreed.  
"Yes," said Poirot. "It is very convenient." There was an indescribable something in his tone that made both the other two look at him curiously.

"You say that you yourself heard Riddle speak to the conductor at twenty three past twelve?" asked M. Bouc.

Poirot related just what had occurred.

"Well," said M. Bouc, "that proves at least that Voldemort—or Riddle, as I shall continue to call him—was certainly alive at that time!."

Poirot did not reply. He sat looking thoughtfully in front of him.

There was a tap on the door and the restaurant attendant entered.

"The restaurant car is free now, Monsieur," he said.

"We will go there," said M. Bouc, rising.

"I may accompany you?" asked Dr. Constantine.

"Certainly, my dear doctor. Unless M. Poirot has any objection?"

"Not at all. Not at all, quite the opposite" said Poirot.

After a little politeness in the matter of precedence— they all left the compartment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Roles Characters Fill:
> 
> Hercule Poirot - As Himself.
> 
> Dr. Constantine - As Himself.
> 
> The Conductor - As Himself.
> 
> M. Bouc. - As Himself.
> 
> Hermione Granger - As Mary Hermione Debenham.
> 
> Ron Weasley - As Colonel Arbuthnot.
> 
> William 'Bill' Weasley - As Count Andrenyi.
> 
> Fleur Delacour - As Countess Helena Maria Andrenyi (nee Goldenberg).
> 
> Molly Weasley - As Mrs. Hubbard/Linda Arden (Goldenberg).
> 
> Draco Malfoy - As Hector MacQueen.
> 
> Minerva McGonagall - As Princess Natalia Dragomiroff.
> 
> Sybil Trelawney - As Hildegarde Schmidt.
> 
> Luna Lovegood - As Greta Ohlsson.
> 
> Remus Lupin - As Cyrus Bethman Hardman.
> 
> Neville Longbottom - As Edward Henry Masterman.
> 
> Tom Riddle/Lord Voldemort - As Ratchett/Casetti: The Murder Victim.
> 
> Nymphadora Tonks - As the nursemaid, Susanne (DECEASED). 
> 
> Harry Potter - As Colonel Armstrong (DECEASED).
> 
> Ginevra Potter - As Sonia Armstrong (DECEASED).
> 
> Lily Luna Potter - As Daisy Armstrong (DECEASED).


	10. The Evidence of The Wagon Lit Conductor

The restaurant car was in readiness when the three men arrived.

Poirot and M. Bouc sat together on one side of a table. The doctor sat across the aisle.

On the table in front of Poirot was his plan of the passenger coaches with the names of the passengers marked in red ink. The passports and tickets were in a pile at one side. To the side of this, there was writing paper, ink, pen, and pencils.

"Most excellent," said Poirot. "We can open our Court of Inquiry without more ado. First, I think, we should take the evidence of the Wagon Lit conductor. Bouc, you probably know something about the man. What  
character has he? Is he a man on whose word you would place reliance?"

"I should say, most assuredly. Pierre Michel has been employed by the company for three years. He is a Frenchman—lives near Calais. Thoroughly respectable and honest. Not, perhaps, remarkable for brains."  
Poirot nodded comprehendingly. "Good," he said. "Let us see him."

When Pierre Michel arrived, he had recovered some of his assurance, but was still extremely nervous.

"I hope Monsieur will not think that there has been any negligence on my part," he said anxiously, his eyes going from Poirot to M. Bouc. "It is a terrible thing that has happened. I hope Monsieur does not think that it reflects on me in any way?"

Having soothed the man's fears, Poirot began his questions. He first elicited Michel's name and address, his length of service, and the length of time he had been on this particular route. These particulars he already knew, but the routine questions served to put the man at his ease.

"And now," went on Poirot, "let us come to the events of Last night. Riddle retired to bed—when?"  
"Almost immediately after dinner, Monsieur. Actually before we left Edinburgh. He had directed me to make up the bed while he was at dinner, and I did so."  
"Did anybody go into his compartment afterwards?" Poirot asked.  
"His valet, Monsieur, and the other young gentleman- his secretary."

"Anyone else?" Poirot checked.  
"No, Monsieur, not that I know of." Pierre Michel still sounded anxious in his replies.  
"And that is the last you saw or heard of him?"  
"No, Monsieur. You forget he rang his bell about twenty past one— soon after we had stopped."

Poirot most certainly had not forgotten. 

"What happened exactly?" Poirot asked, already knowing. 

"I knocked at the door, but he called out and said he had made a mistake."  
"In English or in French?" Poirot said quickly.  
"In French." Pierre Michel answered just as quickly. 

"And what were his words exactly?"  
"Ce n'est rien. Je me suis trompé."

"Quite right," said Poirot. "That is what I heard. And then you went away?"  
"Yes, Monsieur."  
"Did you go back to your seat?"  
"No, Monsieur, I went first to answer another bell that had just rung." 

"Now, Michel," Poirot began in a deeper voice, "I am going to ask you an important question. Where were you at a quarter past one?"  
"Me Monsieur? I was at my little seat at the end—facing up the corridor."  
"You are sure?"  
"Oui—at least—"

He paused, and then went on. 

"I went into the other coach, the sleeper coach occupied by Monsieur Bouc, to speak to my colleague there. We spoke about the snow. That was at some time soon after one o'clock. I cannot say exactly."

"And you returned—when?" Poirot asked, smiling gently.  
"One of my bells rang again, Monsieur—I remember—I told you. It was the American lady. She had rung several times."  
"I recollect," said Poirot. "And after that?"

Pierre Michel paused for a moment, but not enough to cast suspicion on himself, and then continued. 

"After that, Monsieur? I answered your bell and brought you some mineral water. Then, about half an hour later, I made up the bed in one of the other compartments—that of Mr. Riddle's secretary."  
"Was Mr. Malfoy alone in his compartment when you went to make up his bed?"  
"The English Colonel from No. 5 was in with him. They had been sitting, talking."

"What did the Colonel do when he left Mr. Malfoy?" Poirot pressed on this.  
"He went back to his own compartment."  
"No. 5—that is quite close to your seat, is it not?"

"Yes, I would say so Monsieur, it is the third compartment from that end of the corridor."  
"And the Colonel Weasley's bed was already made up?"  
"Yes, Monsieur. I had made it up while he was at dinner."

"What time was it when he returned from talking?"  
"I could not say exactly, Monsieur. Not later than two o'clock in the morning certainly."  
"And after that?"  
"After that, Monsieur, I sat in my seat" Pierre Michel replied, confident in speech for the first time.

"Perhaps you slept?"  
"I do not think so, Monsieur. The train being at a standstill prevented me from dozing off as I usually do."  
"Did you see any of the passengers moving up or down the corridor?"

Conductor Pierre Michel reflected. "One of the ladies went to the toilet at the far end of the train, I think."

"Which lady?" Poirot asked, thinking not only of the lady in the kimono, but what he had been told earlier by Bouc- that passengers are escorted to the toilet at night.  
"I do not know, Monsieur. It was far down the corridor and she had her back to me. She had on a kimono of scarlet with dragons on it."

Poirot nodded, his suspicions confirmed. "And after that?"  
"Nothing, Monsieur, not until this morning at breakfast time."

"You are sure?"  
"Ah, pardon—you yourself, Monsieur, opened your door and looked out for a second."

"Good, my friend," said Poirot. "I wondered whether you would have noticed that. By the way, I was awakened by what sounded like something heavy falling against my door. Have you any idea what that could have been?"

The man stared at him. His eyes slightly glazed. "There was nothing, Monsieur. Nothing, I am positive of it."

"Then I must have had the nerves," said Poirot philosophically.  
"Unless," put in M. Bouc, "it was something in the compartment next door that you heard."

Poirot took no notice of the suggestion.  
Perhaps he did not wish to before the Wagon Lit conductor.

"Let us pass to another point," he said. "Supposing that last night an assassin joined the train. Is it quite certain that he could not have left it after committing the crime?"

Pierre Michel shook his head.

"Nor that he can be concealed on it somewhere?"  
"It has been well searched," said Bouc. "Abandon that idea, my friend."  
"Besides," said Michel, "no one could get on to the sleeping-car without my seeing them." 

"When was the last stop, then?" Poirot asked.  
"Rannoch."  
"What time was that?"  
"We should have left there at 11:20, but owing to the weather we arrived late, and left late too."  
"Someone might have come along from the ordinary part of the train?"

"No, Monsieur. After the service of dinner, the door between the ordinary carriages and the sleeping-cars is locked, Besides, no seating passengers joined after Edinburgh." Pierre Michel replied.

Poirot knew that nobody had been on board at Edinburgh- he had passed through the standard carriages.

"When I visited Bouc last night, they were not locked?" Poirot asserted.  
"Ah- I unlocked them for you Monsieur" Michel replied. He looked nervous. 

"Did you yourself descend from the train at Rannoch?"  
"Yes Monsieur. I got down onto the platform as usual and stood by the step up into the train. The other conductor did the same."  
"What about the exterior doors—the ones of the restaurant, bar, and sleeping cars?"  
"They are always fastened on the inside."

"They are not so fastened now." Dr. Constantine suddenly said, speaking for the first time in the interview. 

Bouc, Poirot, and Constantine all eyed Michel carefully. 

The man looked surprised; then his face cleared. "Doubtless one of the passengers opened it to look out on the snow."

"Probably," said Poirot. He then tapped thoughtfully on the table for a minute or two.

"Oh by the way Michel, when you attended to Mr. Riddle, another bell rang, who was that?" Poirot asked.  
"The valet of Mr. Riddle, Monsieur, he required a bottle of water, to take a painkiller I recall." The conductor replied earnestly. 

"Monsieur does not blame me?" Michel then added timidly.

Poirot smiled on him kindly.

Poirot studied the plan in front of him thoughtfully. Then he inclined his head. "That is all," he said, "for the moment."

"Thank you, Monsieur." Conductor Pierre Michel rose. 

He looked at M. Bouc, still half-timid.

"Do not distress yourself," said the latter kindly; "I cannot see that there has been any negligence on your part, you may go."

Finally completely gratified, Pierre Michel left the compartment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Roles Characters Fill:
> 
> Hercule Poirot - As Himself.
> 
> Dr. Constantine - As Himself.
> 
> The Conductor - As Himself.
> 
> M. Bouc. - As Himself.
> 
> Hermione Granger - As Mary Hermione Debenham.
> 
> Ron Weasley - As Colonel Arbuthnot.
> 
> William 'Bill' Weasley - As Count Andrenyi.
> 
> Fleur Delacour - As Countess Helena Maria Andrenyi (nee Goldenberg).
> 
> Molly Weasley - As Mrs. Hubbard/Linda Arden (Goldenberg).
> 
> Draco Malfoy - As Hector MacQueen.
> 
> Minerva McGonagall - As Princess Natalia Dragomiroff.
> 
> Sybil Trelawney - As Hildegarde Schmidt.
> 
> Luna Lovegood - As Greta Ohlsson.
> 
> Remus Lupin - As Cyrus Bethman Hardman.
> 
> Neville Longbottom - As Edward Henry Masterman.
> 
> Tom Riddle/Lord Voldemort - As Ratchett/Casetti: The Murder Victim.
> 
> Nymphadora Tonks - As the nursemaid, Susanne (DECEASED). 
> 
> Harry Potter - As Colonel Armstrong (DECEASED).
> 
> Ginevra Potter - As Sonia Armstrong (DECEASED).
> 
> Lily Luna Potter - As Daisy Armstrong (DECEASED).


	11. The Further Evidence of Draco Malfoy

For a minute or two Poirot remained lost, in thought.

"I think," he said at last, "that it would be well to have a further word with Mr. Malfoy, in view of what we now know."

The young American appeared promptly after being summoned by a restaurant attendant.

"Well," he said rather casually, "how are things going Mr. Poirot?"  
"Not too badly. Since our last conversation, I have learnt something—the true identity of Mr. Riddle."

Draco Malfoy leaned forward interestedly. "Yes?" he said.

"Riddle, as you suspected, was merely acting a part. The man 'Riddle' was Voldemort, who ran the celebrated crimes against humanity— including the famous affair of little Lily Luna Potter."

An expression of utter astonishment appeared on Malfoy's face.  
Then it darkened.

"The damned snake!" he exclaimed.  
"You had no idea of this, Mr. Malfoy?" Poirot began.

"No, sir," said the young man decidedly. "If I had, I'd have cut off my right hand before it had a chance to do secretarial work for him!"  
"You feel strongly about the matter, Mr. Malfoy?"  
"I have a particular reason for doing so. I saw Mr. and Mrs. Potter more than once—she was a lovely woman. He was a good man. Both so heartbroken by the whole affair-" His face darkened. 

"If ever a man deserved what he got, Riddle—or Voldemort—is the man. I'm rejoiced at his end. Such a man wasn't fit to live!"  
"You almost feel as though you would have been willing to do the good deed yourself?" Poirot interrupted with.  
"I do. I—" He paused, then added rather guiltily, "Seems I'm kind of incriminating myself."

"I should be more inclined to suspect you, Mr. Malfoy, if you displayed an inordinate sorrow at your employer's decease, knowing his true identity."  
"I don't think I could do that even to save myself from the chair," said Malfoy grimly. Then he added: "If I'm not being unduly curious, just how did you figure this out? Riddle's identity, I mean."

"By a fragment of a letter found in his compartment."  
"But surely—I mean—that was rather careless of the old man?"  
"That depends," said Poirot, "on the point of view."

The young man seemed to find this remark rather baffling. He stared at Poirot as though trying to make him out.

"The task before me," said Poirot, "is to make sure of the movements of every one on the train. No offence need be taken, you understand. It is only a matter of routine."  
"Sure. Get right on with it and let me clear my character if I can."

"Your compartment is the number 4 Mr. Malfoy?"  
"That's right."  
"Now, Mr. Malfoy, I want you to describe your movements last night from the time of leaving the dining-car."

The young man folded into his speech very easily, far from the nervousness of Pierre Michel. 

"That's quite easy. I went back to my compartment, read a bit, got out on the platform at York for some air, decided it was too cold, and got in again. I talked for a while to a young English lady who is in the compartment near to mine. Then I fell into conversation with that Englishman, Colonel Weasley. Then I went in to Mr. Riddle and, as I told you, took down some memoranda of letters he wanted written. I said goodnight to him and left him. Colonel Weasley was still standing in the corridor when I got out. His compartment was already made up for the night, so I suggested that he should come along to mine. I believe you saw us Mr. Poirot. Not long after, I ordered a couple of drinks from the conductor and we got right down to it. Discussed world politics and the Government of India and our own troubles with Prohibition and the Wall Street crisis. I don't as a rule cotton to those types—they're a very different lot to my own—but I liked this one." 

"Do you know what time it was when he left you?"  
"Pretty late. Nearly two o'clock in the morning, I should say."  
"You noticed that the train had stopped?"  
"Oh, yes. We wondered a bit. Looked out and saw the snow lying very thick, but we didn't think it was serious."

"What happened when Colonel Weasley finally said good night?"  
"He went along to his compartment and I called to the conductor to make up my bed."  
"Where were you whilst he was making it?"  
"Standing just outside the door in the corridor smoking a cigarette."

"And then?"  
"And then I went to bed and slept till morning."  
"During the evening did either of you leave the train at all Mr. Malfoy?"  
"Weasley and I thought we'd get out at—what was the name of the place?—Rannoch—to stretch our legs a bit. But it was bitterly cold—a blizzard on. We soon hopped back again."

"By which door did you leave the train?"  
"Well, by the one nearest to your compartment."  
"The one next to the first of the seating cars?"  
"Yes."

"Do you remember if it was bolted?"

Malfoy considered.

"Why, yes, I seem to remember it was. At least there was a kind of bar that fitted across the handle. Is that what you mean?"  
"Yes. On getting back into the train did you replace that bar?"  
"Why, no—I don't think I did. I got in last. No, I don't seem to remember doing so." Malfoy added suddenly, "Is that an important point?"  
"It may be. Now, I presume, that while you and Colonel Weasley were sitting talking the door of your compartment into the corridor was open?"

Draco Malfoy nodded and then said "Well, it was ajar at first, if that's what you mean, but we opened it wide to receive drinks".

"I want you, if you can, to tell me if anyone passed along that corridor after the train left Rannoch up to the time you parted company for the night."

Malfoy drew his brows together.

"I think the conductor passed along once," he said, "coming from the direction of the bar-car. And a woman passed the other way, going towards it."  
"Which woman?" Poirot asked.  
"I couldn't say. I didn't really notice. You see I was arguing a point with Weasley. I just seem to remember a glimpse of some scarlet silk affair passing the door. I didn't look, and anyway I wouldn't have seen the person's face. As you know, my carriage faces the dining end of the train, so a woman going along the corridor in that direction would have her back to me as soon as she'd passed."

Poirot nodded. "She was going to the toilet, I presume?"  
"I suppose so." Malfoy answered.  
"And you saw her return?"

The young man paused in thought, bringing his brows together again. 

"Well, no, now that you mention it, I didn't notice her returning but I suppose she must have done so."  
"One more question. Do you smoke a pipe, Mr. Malfoy?"  
"No, sir, I do not."  
Poirot paused a moment. "I think that is all at present. I should now like to see the valet of Mr. Riddle." 

Malfoy went to rise, but Poirot interrupted this with his last question. 

"Oh- by the way, did both you and he always travel in a different class?"  
"I usually went first, if possible in the compartment adjoining Riddle's. Then he had most of his baggage put in my compartment and yet could get at both it and me easily whenever he chose. But on this occasion all the first-class compartments were booked except the one that he took."

"I comprehend. Thank you, Mr. Malfoy."

Mr. Malfoy left the carriage, Poirot and the other men watching him all the way to the corridor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Roles Characters Fill:
> 
> Hercule Poirot - As Himself.
> 
> Dr. Constantine - As Himself.
> 
> The Conductor - As Himself.
> 
> M. Bouc. - As Himself.
> 
> Hermione Granger - As Mary Hermione Debenham.
> 
> Ron Weasley - As Colonel Arbuthnot.
> 
> William 'Bill' Weasley - As Count Andrenyi.
> 
> Fleur Delacour - As Countess Helena Maria Andrenyi (nee Goldenberg).
> 
> Molly Weasley - As Mrs. Hubbard/Linda Arden (Goldenberg).
> 
> Draco Malfoy - As Hector MacQueen.
> 
> Minerva McGonagall - As Princess Natalia Dragomiroff.
> 
> Sybil Trelawney - As Hildegarde Schmidt.
> 
> Luna Lovegood - As Greta Ohlsson.
> 
> Remus Lupin - As Cyrus Bethman Hardman.
> 
> Neville Longbottom - As Edward Henry Masterman.
> 
> Tom Riddle/Lord Voldemort - As Ratchett/Casetti: The Murder Victim.
> 
> Nymphadora Tonks - As the nursemaid, Susanne (DECEASED). 
> 
> Harry Potter - As Colonel Armstrong (DECEASED).
> 
> Ginevra Potter - As Sonia Armstrong (DECEASED).
> 
> Lily Luna Potter - As Daisy Armstrong (DECEASED).


	12. The Evidence of Neville Longbottom

Malfoy, the so-called British-American, was succeeded by a pale Englishman with the inexpressive face whom Poirot had already noticed on the day before.

He stood waiting very correctly. Poirot motioned to him to sit down.

"You were, I understand, the valet of Mr. Riddle."  
"Yes, sir."  
"Your name?"  
"Neville Longbottom."

"Your age Mr. Longbottom?"  
"Thirty."  
"And your home address?"

Neville's home address and age were already present on his passport, Poirot used the questions more for their calm pleasantness than for the answers.  
Once these had passed, Poirot moved on.

"You have heard that your master has been murdered Mr. Longbottom?"  
"Yes, sir. A very shocking occurrence."  
"Will you now tell me, please, at what hour you last saw your master?"

The valet looked quite nervous to Poirot, but all thing considered, was handling it remarkably well.  
In appreciation of this, he decided to take a softer approach with the man. 

"It must have been about a quarter past ten o'clock, sir, last night. That or a little after. I remember that the train had just moved."  
"Tell me in your own words exactly what happened please."  
"I went in to Mr. Riddle as usual, sir, and attended to his wants."

"Now. What were your duties exactly?"  
"To fold or hang up his clothes, sir, put his dental plate in water and see that he had everything he wanted for the night."  
"Was Riddle's manner much the same as usual?"

The valet went deep into thought for a moment.

"Well, sir, I think he was upset."  
"Oh. In what way—upset?"

"Over a letter he'd been reading. He asked me if it was I who had put it in his compartment. Of course I told him I hadn't done any such thing, but he swore at me and found fault with everything I did."

"Was that unusual then?"  
"The letter? Yes, but his mood? Oh, no, sir. He lost his temper with me very easily—as I say, it just depended what had happened to upset him."  
"I am sorry to hear that Neville. Did your master ever take a sleeping draught?"

Dr. Constantine leaned forward a little.

"When travelling by train, sir. He said he couldn't sleep otherwise."  
"Do you know what drug he was in the habit of taking?"  
"I couldn't say, I'm sure, sir. There was no name on the bottle—just 'The Sleeping Draught to be taken at bedtime.' "

"Did he take it last night?"  
"Yes, sir. I poured it into a glass and put it on top of the basin table ready for him."  
"You didn't actually see him drink it?"  
"No, sir."

"What happened next?"  
"I asked if there was anything further, and also asked what time he would like to be called in the morning. He said he didn't want to be disturbed till he rang."  
"Was that usual?"  
"Quite usual, sir. When he was ready to get up he used to ring the bell for the conductor and then send him for me."

"Was he usually an early or a late riser?"  
"It depended, sir, on his mood. Sometimes he'd get up for breakfast, sometimes he wouldn't get up till just on lunch time."  
"So that you weren't alarmed when the morning wore on and no summons came?"  
"No, sir."

"Did you know that your master had enemies?"  
"Yes, sir." The man spoke quite unemotionally.  
"How did you know?" Poirot was sure Mr. Riddle wouldn't discuss such a thing with his valet.  
"I- well- I had heard him discussing some letters, sir, with Mr. Malfoy." 

"Had you an affection for your employer, Neville?"

Neville Longbottom hesitated, he looked almost upset, but then his face returned to being inexpressive before he spoke. 

"I should hardly like to comment on that, sir. He was a generous employer in terms of expenses and wages."

Poirot paused, thinking of how to word his next question.

"But nonetheless, you didn't like him?"  
"Shall we put it that I don't care very much for unlikable and unkind people, sir?" the valet put this well. 

Poirot could not argue with this, especially in the case of Tom Riddle- Voldemort. And so he changed the subject. 

"Have you ever been in America Neville?"  
"No, sir."  
"Do you remember reading in the paper of the Potter tragedy?"

A little colour came into the man's cheeks.

"Yes, indeed, sir. In the Prophet. A little baby girl, wasn't it? A very shocking affair."

Bouc, unlike Poirot and Constantine, had never heard of the Prophet newspaper, and subconsciously made a note of the strange name. 

"Did you know that your employer, Mr. Riddle, was the principal instigator in that affair?"  
"No, indeed not, sir." The valet's tone held positive warmth and feeling for the first time. "I can hardly believe it, sir."

"Nevertheless, it is true. He was the man- Voldemort. Now, to pass to your own movements last night. A matter of routine, you understand. What did you do after leaving your master?"  
"I went to my own compartment and read."

"Your compartment was where?"  
"In the other sleeping coach, sir. A second class one."

Poirot was looking at his plan.

"I see—and you had which compartment?"  
"The furthest from the rear of the train, sir."  
"That is 16, oui?"  
"Yes, sir."

"Is there anyone in with you?"  
"Yes, sir. Another English fellow- the one with tan suits, a Mr. Lupin, sir."  
"Do you and he talk together much?"  
"No, sir. I prefer to read."

Poirot smiled. He could visualise the scene—the older, chocolate-eating man, and the snub direct administered by the gentleman's gentleman who simply wanted to read in quietness.

"And what, may I ask, are you reading?" he inquired.  
"At present, sir, I am reading a new plant encyclopedia, by London's Natural History Museum."  
"A good read?" Poirot said kindly.  
"I find it highly enjoyable, sir, I recommend it." Neville replied, smiling. 

"Well, let us continue. You returned to your compartment and read your book till—when?"  
"At about ten thirty, sir, this other man wanted to go to bed. So the conductor came and made the beds up for us accordingly."  
"And then you went to bed and to sleep?"  
"I went to bed, sir, but I didn't sleep."

"Why didn't you sleep?"  
"I had a headache, sir." The valet sounded rather childlike when saying this.  
"Oh, là-là—that is painful." Poirot responded, in an appropriately parental and sympathetic voice.  
"Most painful, sir."

"Did you do anything for it Neville, call for a drink from the conductor perhaps?"  
"Yes, and I took an aspirin, sir, which relieved the pain a little, but I was still not able to get to sleep. I turned the light on above my head and continued to read—to take my mind off, as it were."  


Poirot now knew for sure who had rang another bell when Michel checked upon Mr. Riddle. "And did you not go to sleep at all?"  
"Yes, sir, I dropped off about four in the morning."

"And your companion?"  
"Oh, he just snored."  
"He did not leave the compartment at all during the night?"  
"No, sir."

"Did you?"  
"No, sir."  
"Did you hear anything during the night?"  
"I don't think so, sir. Nothing unusual, I mean. The train being at a standstill made it all very quiet."

Poirot was silent a moment or two. Then he spoke. 

"Well, I think there is very little more to be said. You cannot throw any light upon the murder?"  
"I'm afraid not. I'm sorry, sir."  
"As far as you know, was there any quarrel or bad blood between your master and Mr. Malfoy?"  
"What? Oh! no, sir. Mr. Malfoy can be a very pleasant gentleman."

"Where were you in service before you came to Mr. Riddle?"  
"I was a teacher, sir, in Scotland."  
"Oh? Why did you leave?"  
"They did not require my services any longer. But I am sure they will speak for me, sir. I was with the school some years."

"And so you were with Mr. Riddle how long?"  
"Just over nine months, sir."  
"Thank you, Neville. By the way, are you a pipe-smoker?"  
"No, sir. I do not smoke, filthy habit, sir."

"Thank you, that will do."

Poirot gave him a nod of dismissal.

The valet hesitated a moment.

"You'll excuse me, sir, but the elderly American lady- Mrs. W- I mean Mrs. Hubbard, is in what I might describe as a state, sir. She's saying she knows all about the murderer. She's in a very excitable condition, sir."

"In that case," said Poirot, smiling, "we had better see her next."  
"Shall I tell her, sir? She's been demanding to see someone in authority for a long time. The train staff have been trying to pacify her." Neville replied quickly.  
"Send her to us, my friend," said Poirot. "We will listen to her story now."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Roles Characters Fill:
> 
> Hercule Poirot - As Himself.
> 
> Dr. Constantine - As Himself.
> 
> The Conductor - As Himself.
> 
> M. Bouc. - As Himself.
> 
> Hermione Granger - As Mary Hermione Debenham.
> 
> Ron Weasley - As Colonel Arbuthnot.
> 
> William 'Bill' Weasley - As Count Andrenyi.
> 
> Fleur Delacour - As Countess Helena Maria Andrenyi (nee Goldenberg).
> 
> Molly Weasley - As Mrs. Hubbard/Linda Arden (Goldenberg).
> 
> Draco Malfoy - As Hector MacQueen.
> 
> Minerva McGonagall - As Princess Natalia Dragomiroff.
> 
> Sybil Trelawney - As Hildegarde Schmidt.
> 
> Luna Lovegood - As Greta Ohlsson.
> 
> Remus Lupin - As Cyrus Bethman Hardman.
> 
> Neville Longbottom - As Edward Henry Masterman.
> 
> Tom Riddle/Lord Voldemort - As Ratchett/Casetti: The Murder Victim.
> 
> Nymphadora Tonks - As the nursemaid, Susanne (DECEASED). 
> 
> Harry Potter - As Colonel Armstrong (DECEASED).
> 
> Ginevra Potter - As Sonia Armstrong (DECEASED).
> 
> Lily Luna Potter - As Daisy Armstrong (DECEASED).


	13. The Evidence of Molly, The 'American' Lady

Mrs. Molly Hubbard arrived in the dining-car in such a state of breathless excitement that she was hardly able to articulate her words.

"Now just tell me this—who's in authority here? I've got some very important information, very important indeed, and I'm going to tell it to someone in authority just as soon as I can. If you gentlemen—"

Her wavering glance fluctuated between the three men. Poirot leaned forward.  
"Tell it to me, Madame," he said. "But first, pray be seated."

The woman plumped heavily down on to the seat opposite to him.

"What I've got to tell you is just this. There was a murder on the train last night, and the murderer was right there in my compartment!"

She paused to give dramatic emphasis to her words.

"You are sure of this, Madame?" Poirot said.

"Of course I'm sure! The idea! I know what I'm talking about. I'll tell you everything there is to tell. I'd gotten into bed and gone to sleep, and suddenly I woke up—everything was dark—and I knew there was a man in my compartment. I was just so scared I couldn't scream, if you know what I mean. I just lay there and thought, 'Mercy, I'm going to be killed!' I just can't describe to you how I felt. These nasty trains, I thought, and all the outrages I'd read of. And I thought, 'Well, anyway, he won't get my jewellery'—because, you see, I'd put that in a stocking and hidden it under my pillow—which isn't any too comfortable, by the way; kinda bumpy, if you know what I mean. But that's neither here nor there. Where was I?"

"You realised, Madame, that there was a man in your compartment?" Poirot replied, feigning a polite smile.

"Yes, well, I just lay there with my eyes closed, and wondered what I'd do. And I thought, well, I'm just thankful that my daughter doesn't know the plight I'm in. And then, somehow, I got my wits about me and I felt about with my hand and I pressed the bell for the conductor. I pressed it! And I pressed it! But nothing happened! —and I can tell you, I thought my heart was going to stop beating! 'Mercy,' I said to myself, 'maybe they've murdered every single soul on the train.' It was at a standstill anyhow and there was a nasty quiet feel in the air. But I just went on pressing that bell and oh! The relief when I heard footsteps coming running down the corridor and a knock on the door! 'Come in!' I screamed, and I switched on the lights at the same time. And would you believe it, there wasn't a soul there!"

This seemed to her to be a dramatic climax rather than an anticlimax.

Poirot paused for a moment to make sure she had finished, and then spoke: "And what happened next, Madame?"

"Why, I told the man what had happened and he didn't seem to believe me. Seemed to imagine I'd dreamed the whole thing! I made him look under the seat, though he said there wasn't room for a man to squeeze himself in there. It was plain enough that the man had got away—but there had been a man there, and it just made me mad the way the conductor tried to soothe me down! I'm not one to imagine things, Mr.—I don't think I know your name?"

"Poirot, Madame; and this is M. Bouc, a director of the company," he then gestured across the aisle, "and that is Dr. Constantine."

Molly murmured, "Pleased to meet you, I'm sure," to all three of them in an abstracted manner and then plunged once more into her hysterical recital.

"Now I'm just not going to pretend I was as bright as I might have been. I got it into my head that it was the man from next door—the poor fellow who's been killed. I told the conductor to look at the door between the compartments, and sure enough it wasn't bolted. Well, I soon saw to that. I told him to bolt it then and there, and after he'd gone out I got up and put a suitcase against it to make sure."

"What time was this, Mrs. Hubbard?"  
"Well, I'm sure I can't tell you Mr. Poirot. I never looked to see. I was so upset! I cried myself to sleep."  
"Ah, I am sorry Madame. Hmm- what is your theory now?"  
"Why, I should say it was just as plain as plain could be. The man in my compartment was the murderer. Who else could he be?"

"And you think he went back into the adjoining compartment?"  
"How do I know where he went? I had my eyes tight shut."  
"He might have slipped out through the door into the corridor."  
"Well, I couldn't say. You see, I had my eyes tight shut." Mrs. Hubbard sighed convulsively.

"Mercy, I was scared! If my dear daughter only knew—"  
"You do not think, Madame, that what you heard was the noise of someone moving about next door—in the murdered man's compartment?" Poirot interrupted her with.  
"No! I do not, Mr. Poirot. The man was right there in the same compartment with me! And what's more, I've got proof of it."

Triumphantly, she hauled a large handbag into view and proceeded to burrow madly in its interior. She took out in turn two large clean handkerchiefs, a pair of horn-rimmed reading glasses, a bottle of aspirin, a crumpled brown envelope, a tube of bright green peppermints, a bunch of keys, a pair of scissors, a snapshot of a huge ginger family, some letters, her wand, some knitting needles, and finally- a small metal object—a button.

The wand went unnoticed to Bouc, who in his assumptive and oblivious ways, assumed it to be another knitting needle. 

"You see this button? Well, it's not one of my buttons. It's not off anything I've got. I found it this morning when I got up."

As she placed it on the table, Bouc. leaned forward and gave an exclamation. "But this is a button from the tunic of a Wagon Lit attendant!"  
"There may be a natural explanation for that," said Poirot. He turned gently to the lady.

"This button, Madame, may have dropped from the conductor's uniform, either when he searched your cabin or when he was making the bed up last night?"

The woman sighed and rolled her eyes.

"I just don't know what's the matter with all you people! Seems as though you don't want to do anything but make objections. Now listen here. I was reading a magazine last night before I went to sleep. Before I turned the light out, I placed that magazine on a little case that was standing on the floor near the window. Have you got that?"

They assured her that they had with words, then nodded exaggeratedly to make the point clear. 

"Very well then. The conductor looked under the seat from near the door, and then he came in and bolted the door between me and the next compartment, but he never went near the window. Well, this morning that button was lying right on top of the magazine. What do you call that, I should like to know?"

"That, Madame, I call evidence," said Poirot gently.

The answer seemed to appease the lady.

"It makes me madder than a hornet to be disbelieved," she explained.  
"You have given us most interesting and valuable evidence," said Poirot soothingly. "Now may I ask you a few questions?"  
"Why, certainly." Molly allowed. 

"How was it, since you were nervous of this man Riddle, that you hadn't already bolted the door between the compartments?"  
"I had," returned Mrs. Hubbard promptly.  
"Oh, you had?"  
"Well, as a matter of fact I asked that blonde Scandinavian creature—a pleasant soul—if it was bolted, and she said it was."

"How was it you couldn't see for yourself?"  
"Because I was in bed and my spongebag was hanging on the door handle."

"What time was it when you asked her to do this for you?"  
"Now let me think. It must have- been round about half-past ten or a quarter to eleven. She'd come along to see if I had an aspirin. I told her where to find it and she got it out of my grip."  
"You yourself were already in bed?"  
"Yes."

Suddenly she laughed. "Poor soul—she was so upset! You see, she'd opened the door of the next compartment by mistake."  
"Mr. Riddle's?"  
"Yes. You know how difficult it is as you come along the train and all the doors are shut. She opened his by mistake. She was very distressed about it. He'd laughed, it seemed, and I guess he said something not quite nice. Poor thing, she certainly was upset. 'Oh! I make mistake,' she said. 'I ashamed make mistake. Not nice man,' she said. 'He say, You too old'."

Dr. Constantine sniggered at this, and Molly immediately froze him with a glance.

"He wasn't a nice kind of man!" she said, "to say a thing like that to a lady. It's not right to laugh at such things." 

Dr. Constantine hastily apologised.

"Did you hear any noise from Mr. Riddle's compartment after that?" asked Poirot.  
"Well—not exactly."  
"What do you mean by that, Madame?"  
"Well—" She paused. "He snored."

"Ah!—he snored, did he?"  
"Terribly. It kept me awake."  
"You didn't hear him snore after you had had the scare about a man being in your compartment?"

She paused before continuing. 

"Why, Mr. Poirot, how could I? He was dead."

"Ah, Yes, truly," said Poirot. He appeared confused.

"Do you remember the affair of the Potter tragedy, Mrs.Hubbard?" he asked plainly.  
"Oh! Why! Yes! Indeed I do, and how the wretch that did it escaped scot-free! My, I'd have liked to get my hands on him."  
"He has not escaped. He is dead. He died last night."

"You don't mean—?' Mrs. Hubbard half rose from her chair in excitement.  
"But yes, I do. Riddle was the man."  
"Well! Well, to think of that! I must write and tell my daughter. Now, didn't I tell you last night that that man had an evil face? I was right, you see. My daughter always says: 'When Mamma's got a hunch you can bet your bottom galleon it's O.K.' "

"Were you acquainted with any of the Potter family, Mrs. Hubbard?"  
"Uh. No. They moved in a very exclusive circle. But I've always heard that Mrs. Potter was a perfectly lovely and well-raised woman, and that her dear kind husband worshipped her."

Poirot watched her carefully. 

"Well, Mrs. Hubbard, you have helped us very much—very much indeed. Perhaps you will give me your full name?"  
"Why, certainly. Molly Hubbard."

It did at least match the passport in front of him, but he still had the same doubts as in the restaurant car, her face, it looked so familiar. 

"Will you write your address down here?"

Mrs. Hubbard did so, without ceasing to speak. "I just can't get over it. Riddle—on this train. I had a hunch about that man, didn't I, Mr. Poirot?"  
"Yes, indeed, Madame. By the way, have you a scarlet silk dressinggown?"

"Mercy, what a funny question! Why, no. I've got two dressing gowns with me—a pink flannel one that's kind of cosy for on board ship, and one my daughter gave me as a present—a kind of homely affair in orange. But what in creation do you want to know about my dressing-gowns for?"

"Well, you see, Madame, someone in a kimono entered a compartment last night. It is, as you said just now, very difficult when the doors are shut to know which compartment is which."  
"Well, no one in a scarlet dressing-gown came into my compartment." she replied, rather haughtily.  
"Ah. Could she have gone into Mr. Riddle's?"

Mrs. Hubbard pursed her lips together and said grimly: "That wouldn't surprise me any."  
Poirot leaned forward. "What makes you think that? Did you hear a woman's voice next door?"  
"I don't know how you guessed that, Mr. Poirot. I don't really. But— well—as a matter of fact, I did."  
"But when I asked you just now if you heard anything next door, you only said you heard Mr. Riddle snoring?"  
"Well, that was true enough. He did snore part of the time. As for the other—" Mrs. Hubbard got rather embarrassed. "It isn't a very nice thing to speak about."

"What time was it when you heard a woman's voice?"  
"I can't tell you. I just woke up for a minute and heard a woman talking, and it was plain enough where she was. So I just thought, 'Well, that's the kind of man he is! I'm not surprised'—and then I went to sleep again. And I'm sure I should never have mentioned anything of the kind to three strange gentlemen if you hadn't dragged it out of me."

"Was it before the scare about the man in your compartment, or after?"  
"Why, that's like what you said just now! He wouldn't have had a woman talking to him if he were dead, would he?"  
"Pardon. You must think me very stupid, Madame."

Poirot was sure the whole tale concerning the woman in the red kimono being in Riddle's compartment had been fabricated.

"I guess even you get kinda muddled now and then. I just can't get over its being that monster Riddle. What my daughter would say—" Poirot managed adroitly to help the good lady to replace the contents of her handbag, and he then shepherded her towards the door.

At the last moment, he said: "Oh, you have dropped your handkerchief, Madame?" and showed her the one found in Riddle's compartment. 

Mrs. Hubbard looked at the little scrap of cambric he held out to her.

"Oh That's not mine, Mr. Poirot. I've got mine right here!" she unfolded her own from a pocket in her coat. 

"Pardon. I thought as it had the initial M on it—"

"Well, now, that's funny, but it's certainly not mine. Mine are sensible flannel things—not expensive cambric fallals. What good is a thin handkerchief like that to anybody's nose in winter?"

Poirot had no response to this. He was busy looking at her handkerchief. The small initials clearly marked MW, not MH as might be expected. 

Mrs. Hubbard sailed out triumphantly, thinking his speechlessness was at her comment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Roles Characters Fill:
> 
> Hercule Poirot - As Himself.
> 
> Dr. Constantine - As Himself.
> 
> The Conductor - As Himself.
> 
> M. Bouc. - As Himself.
> 
> Hermione Granger - As Mary Hermione Debenham.
> 
> Ron Weasley - As Colonel Arbuthnot.
> 
> William 'Bill' Weasley - As Count Andrenyi.
> 
> Fleur Delacour - As Countess Helena Maria Andrenyi (nee Goldenberg).
> 
> Molly Weasley - As Mrs. Hubbard/Linda Arden (Goldenberg).
> 
> Draco Malfoy - As Hector MacQueen.
> 
> Minerva McGonagall - As Princess Natalia Dragomiroff.
> 
> Sybil Trelawney - As Hildegarde Schmidt.
> 
> Luna Lovegood - As Greta Ohlsson.
> 
> Remus Lupin - As Cyrus Bethman Hardman.
> 
> Neville Longbottom - As Edward Henry Masterman.
> 
> Tom Riddle/Lord Voldemort - As Ratchett/Casetti: The Murder Victim.
> 
> Nymphadora Tonks - As the nursemaid, Susanne (DECEASED). 
> 
> Harry Potter - As Colonel Armstrong (DECEASED).
> 
> Ginevra Potter - As Sonia Armstrong (DECEASED).
> 
> Lily Luna Potter - As Daisy Armstrong (DECEASED).


	14. The Evidence of Miss Lovegood

Bouc was handling the button that Mrs. Hubbard had left behind her.

"This button. I cannot understand it. Does it mean that after all, Pierre Michel is involved in some way?" he asked. He paused, then continued, as Poirot did not reply. "What have you to say, my friend?"  
"That button, it suggests possibilities," said Poirot thoughtfully. "Let us interview next the sheep-like lady before we discuss the evidence that we have heard."

He sorted through the pile of passports in front of him. "Ah! Here we are. Luna Lovegood, age: thirty-one."

Bouc gave directions to the restaurant attendant, and presently the lady with the dirty-yellow bun of hair and the long, mild, sheeplike face was ushered in. She peered short-sightedly at Poirot through  
her pink glasses, but was quite calm.

It transpired that she understood and spoke French, so the conversation took place in that language. Poirot first asked her the questions to which he already knew the answers—her name, age, and address. He then asked her her occupation.

She was, she told him, an assistant in an animal hospital in the South-West of England.

She was also, it transpired, a trained healer, as well as a veterinarian. 

"You know, of course, of what took place last night, Mademoiselle?"  
"Naturally. It is very dreadful. And the American lady tells me that the murderer was actually in her compartment."  
"I hear, Mademoiselle, that you were the last person to see the murdered man alive?"  
"I do not know. It may be so. I opened the door of his compartment by mistake. I was much ashamed. It was a most awkward mistake."

"You actually saw him?"  
"Yes. He was reading a book. I apologised quickly and withdrew."  
"Did he say anything to you?"

A slight flush showed on the worthy lady's cheek.

"He laughed and said a few words. I—I did not quite catch them."  
"And what did you do after that, Mademoiselle?" asked Poirot, passing from the subject tactfully, wanting to respect her as much as possible.  
"I went in to the American lady, Molly. I asked her for some aspirin and she gave it to me."

"Did she ask you whether the communicating door between her compartment and that of Mr. Riddle was bolted?"  
"Yes."  
"And was it?"  
"Yes."

"And after that?"  
"After that I went back to my compartment, took the aspirin, and lay down."  
"What time was all this?"  
"When I got into bed it was five minutes to eleven. I know because I looked at my watch before I wound it up."

"Did you go to sleep quickly?"  
"Not very quickly. My head got better, but I lay awake some time."  
"Had the train come to a stop before you went to sleep?"  
"I do not think so. We stopped, I think, at a station just as I was getting drowsy."

"That would be Rannoch. Now your compartment, Mademoiselle, is this one?" He indicated it on the plan.  
It was number 8, at the opposite end of Poirot's own carriage.

"That is so, yes."  
"You had the upper or the lower berth?"  
"The lower berth"

"And you have a companion?'  
"Yes, a young English lady. Very nice, very amiable. She had travelled from the continent."

"After the train left Rannoch, did she leave the compartment?"  
"No, I am sure she did not."  
"Why are you sure if you were asleep?"  
"I sleep very lightly. I am used to waking at a sound. I am sure that if she had come down from the berth above I should have awakened. Also, she was very tired, she came in not long after we left Edinburgh."

"Did you yourself leave the compartment?"  
"Not until this morning."

"Have you a scarlet silk kimono, Mademoiselle?"

Luna Lovegood looked uncomfortable. 

"No, indeed. Nothing so glamorous or impractical. I have a good comfortable dressing-gown of soft fluffy material."  
"And the lady with you, Miss Granger? What colour is her dressing-gown?'  
"A pale mauve one such as you buy in nice department stores."

Poirot nodded. Then he asked in a friendly tone: "Why are you taking this journey? A holiday?"  
"Yes, I am going for a holiday. I am going to Hogsmeade to stay with an old friend for a week or so, also to visit her children."  
"Perhaps you will be so amiable as to write me down the name and address of your friend?'  
"With pleasure."

She took the paper and pencil he gave her and wrote down the name and address as requested.

"Have you ever been in America, Mademoiselle?"  
"No. I very nearly went once. I was to go with my grandfather-in-law and his wife, but the plan was cancelled at the last moment. I much regretted this. They are very good, the Americans."  
"Oh, so you are married?" Poirot asked.  
"Yes- my husband, Rolf Scamander, but I keep my name, yes" she replied, blushing slightly. 

"Do you remember hearing of the Potter kidnapping case Luna?"  
"No, what was that?" she replied, and Poirot explained to her most of the terrible affair, leaving out the child's name particularly.

Luna was indignant. Her bun of hair quivered with her emotion.  
She cried so much that Poirot felt guilty. 

"That there are in the world such evil men! The poor mother—my heart aches for her. And to think that the child shared a name with me!"

Poirot gave Luna permission to leave, and she departed, her kindly face flushed, her eyes suffused with tears.

"What do you make of that?" Bouc asked, "she seems very kind and delicate unlike the others."  
"I am wondering how she knew the child's middle name if she has never heard of the case," he began, "I purposely left the name out in case it upset her, and yet she knew it?" Poirot was confused, and still affected by the woman's intense emotion.

Poirot was then writing busily on a sheet of paper.

"What is it you have there, my friend?" asked Bouc.  
"Mon cher, it is my habit to be neat and orderly. I make here a little chronological table of events that clearly involve our victim."

He finished writing and passed the paper to M. Bouc.

"Between 10 and 10.15 Malfoy visits Riddle". 

"(10.15: Train leaves Edinburgh)".

"10.20: Longbottom leaves Riddle with sleeping draught beside him.

"Also 10.20: Poirot sees Riddle, Longbottom, Mrs. Hubbard, Lovegood, Weasley, Malfoy, and Riddle all at once before retiring for the night". 

"Some time after 10.20: Lovegood sees Riddle on the way to seeing Mrs. Hubbard. He was awake (last seen alive)".

"Some time after 11.20: Train leaves Rannoch (late)".

"Around 12.00: Train runs into a snowdrift".

"12.23: Riddle's bell rings. Conductor answers it. Riddle says: Ce n'est rien. Je me suis trompé."

"Between 1.15 and 1:30: Mrs. Hubbard thinks man is in her compartment. Rings for conductor."

M. Bouc nodded in approval as he read.

"That is very clear," he commented.

"There is nothing there that strikes you as at all odd?" Poirot asked in response.

"No, it seems all quite clear and aboveboard. It seems quite plain that the crime was committed at 1.15. The evidence of the watch shows us that, and Mrs. Hubbard's story fits in. For my mind, I will make a guess at the identity of the murderer. I say, the man in the tan suit with the chocolate and gum. He does not fit in with these types on my trains."

Poirot shook his head doubtfully.

"It is hardly so simple as that, I fear," he murmured.  
"Me, I am convinced it is the truth," said M. Bouc, becoming more and more enamoured of his theory.

"And what about the valet Longbottom with the headache who swears that the other man never left the compartment?"

"That is the difficulty." Bouc said slowly. 

Poirot twinkled.

"Yes, it is annoying, that. Unlucky for your theory, and extremely lucky for him that Riddle's valet should have had the headache, otherwise you would have him locked away with no motive."

"It will be explained..." said Bouc with magnificent certainty.

Poirot shook his head again.

"No, it is hardly so simple as that," he murmured again, "It never is".

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Roles Characters Fill:
> 
> Hercule Poirot - As Himself.
> 
> Dr. Constantine - As Himself.
> 
> The Conductor - As Himself.
> 
> M. Bouc. - As Himself.
> 
> Hermione Granger - As Mary Hermione Debenham.
> 
> Ron Weasley - As Colonel Arbuthnot.
> 
> William 'Bill' Weasley - As Count Andrenyi.
> 
> Fleur Delacour - As Countess Helena Maria Andrenyi (nee Goldenberg).
> 
> Molly Weasley - As Mrs. Hubbard/Linda Arden (Goldenberg).
> 
> Draco Malfoy - As Hector MacQueen.
> 
> Minerva McGonagall - As Princess Natalia Dragomiroff.
> 
> Sybil Trelawney - As Hildegarde Schmidt.
> 
> Luna Lovegood - As Greta Ohlsson.
> 
> Remus Lupin - As Cyrus Bethman Hardman.
> 
> Neville Longbottom - As Edward Henry Masterman.
> 
> Tom Riddle/Lord Voldemort - As Ratchett/Casetti: The Murder Victim.
> 
> Nymphadora Tonks - As the nursemaid, Susanne (DECEASED). 
> 
> Harry Potter - As Colonel Armstrong (DECEASED).
> 
> Ginevra Potter - As Sonia Armstrong (DECEASED).
> 
> Lily Luna Potter - As Daisy Armstrong (DECEASED).


	15. The Evidence of Princess McGonagall-Dragomiroff

"Let us hear what Pierre Michel has to say about this button," Poirot then said.

The Wagon Lit conductor was recalled. He looked at them inquiringly.

Bouc cleared his throat. "Michel," he said, "here is a button from your tunic. It was found in the American lady's compartment. What have you to say for yourself about it?"

The conductor's hand went automatically to his tunic. "I have lost no button, Monsieur," he said. "There must be some mistake."  
"That is very odd." Bouc replied.  
"I cannot account for it, Monsieur." 

The man seemed astonished, but not in any way guilty or confused.

Bouc said meaningfully: "Owing to the circumstances in which it was found, it seems fairly certain that this button was dropped by the man who was in Mrs. Hubbard's compartment last night when she rang the bell."  
"But, Monsieur, there was no one there. The lady must have imagined it."  
"She did not imagine it, Michel. The assassin of this man Riddle passed that way—and dropped that button!"

As the significance of M. Bouc's words became plain to him, Pierre Michel flew into a violent state of agitation.

"It is not true, Monsieur; it is not true!" he cried. "You are accusing me of the crime? Me, I am innocent. I am absolutely innocent! Why should I want to kill a Monsieur whom I have never seen before?"  
"Where were you when Mrs. Hubbard's bell rang?" Bouc quipped back.  
"I told you, Monsieur, in the next coach talking to my colleague!"  
"We will send for him." Poirot said calmly.  
"Do so, Monsieur, I implore you, do so."

The conductor of the other sleeper coach was summoned. He immediately confirmed Pierre Michel's statement. The two of them had been discussing the situation caused by the snow. They had been talking some ten minutes when Michel fancied he heard a bell. The other heard it plainly too—a bell ringing repeatedly. Michel had run post-haste to answer it.

"So you see, Monsieur, I am not guilty," cried Michel anxiously.  
"And this button from a Wagon Lit tunic, how do you explain it?" "I cannot, Monsieur. It is a mystery to me. All my buttons are intact."

The other conductor also declared that he had not lost a button; also that he had not been inside Mrs. Hubbard's compartment at any time.

"Calm yourself, Michel," said M. Bouc, "and cast your mind back to the moment when you ran to answer Mrs. Hubbard's bell. Did you meet anyone at all in the corridor?"  
"No, Monsieur."  
"Did you see anyone going away from you down the corridor in the other direction?"  
"Again, no, Monsieur."  
"Odd," said Bouc.

"Not so very," said Poirot. "It is a question of time. Mrs. Hubbard wakes to find someone in her compartment. For a minute or two she lies paralysed, her eyes shut. Probably it was then that the man slipped out into the corridor. Then she starts ringing the bell. But the conductor does not come at once. It is only the third or fourth peal that he hears. I should say myself that there was ample time—"

"For what? For what, mon cher! Remember, there are thick drifts of snow all round the train." Bouc said exasperatedly.  
"There are two courses open to our mysterious assassin," said Poirot slowly. "He could retreat into one of the toilets or—he could disappear into one of the compartments."  
"But they were all occupied."  
"Yes."

"You mean that he could retreat into his own compartment?"

Poirot nodded calmly.

"It fits—it fits;' murmured Bouc. "During that ten minutes' absence of the conductor, the murderer comes from his own compartment, goes into Riddle's, kills him, locks and chains the door on the inside, goes out through Mrs. Hubbard's compartment, and is back safely in his own compartment by the time the conductor arrives."

Poirot murmured: "It is not quite so simple as that, my friend."

With a gesture M. Bouc signified that the two conductors might depart.

"We have still to see seven passengers," said Poirot, moving on. "Five first-class passengers—Princess McGonagall-Dragomiroff, her maid Miss Trelawney in the adjoining compartment, Count and Countess Delacour, and Colonel Weasley. Then three second-class passengers—Miss Granger, and Mr. Lupin, both of which share compartments with people we've already seen. "

"Whom will you see first—the Lupin man?"  
"How you harp on your theory! No, we will start at the top of the tree. Perhaps Madame la Princesse will be so good as to spare us a few moments of her time. Convey that message to her."

"Oui, Monsieur," said the restaurant attendant.

"Tell her we can wait on her in her compartment if she does not wish to put herself to the trouble of coming here," called M. Bouc as he left, much to Poirot's disdain.

But Princess Dragomiroff-McGonagall declined to take this course. She appeared instead in the dining-car, as Poirot wanted, inclined her head slightly and sat down opposite him.

Her small cat-like face looked even paler than the day before. She was certainly ugly, but might've been beautiful once, and yet, like the cat, she had eyes like jewels, noticeably imperious, revealing latent energy and an intellectual force that could be felt at once.

Her voice was deep, very distinct, with a slight grating quality in it. She cut short a flowery phrase of apology from M. Bouc. 

"You need not offer apologies, Messieurs. I understand a murder has taken place. Naturally you must interview all the passengers. I shall be glad to give you all the assistance in my power."

"You are most amiable, Madame," said Poirot politely.  
"Not at all. It is a duty. What do you wish to know?"  
"Your full Christian names and address, Madame. Perhaps you would prefer to write them yourself?"

Poirot proffered a sheet of paper and pencil, but the Princess waved them aside.

"You can write it," she said. "There is nothing difficult. Minerva McGonagall-Dragomiroff, Hogwarts Castle, Scotland."  
"You are travelling home from the continent, Madame?"  
"Yes. I have been staying at the Embassy in Paris. My maid is with me."

"Would you be so good as to give me a brief account of your movements last night from dinner onwards?"  
"Willingly. I directed the conductor to make up my bed whilst I was in the dining-car. I retired to bed immediately after dinner. I read until the hour of eleven, when I turned out my light. I was unable to sleep owing to certain rheumatic pains from which I suffer. At about a quarter to one I rang for my maid. She massaged me and then read aloud till I felt sleepy. I cannot say exactly, when she left me. It may have been half an hour afterwards, it may have been even later."

"The train had stopped then Madame?"  
"The train had stopped at midnight, I believe."  
"You heard nothing—nothing unusual during the time, Madame?"  
"I heard nothing unusual."

"What is your maid's name?"  
"Sybil Trelawney."  
"She has been with you long?"  
"Some years now, yes."

"You consider her trustworthy?"  
"Absolutely. She came from the estate of my late friend."  
"You have been in America, I presume, Madame?"

The abrupt change of subject made the old lady raise her eyebrows.

"Many times."  
"Were you at any time acquainted with a family of the name of Potter—a family in which a tragedy occurred?"  
With some emotion in her voice the old lady said: "You speak of friends of mine, Monsieur."

"You knew Mr. Potter well, then?"  
"I knew him, yes, and his wife, Ginny, I was godmother to Ginevra, and then again to her children. I was on terms of friendship with Ginny's mother, the actress, Margaret Prewett. She, and her daughter, as well as Mr. Potter, were of great genius. I loved them all as a lady does her family. But Margaret was one of the greatest actresses in the world. As Lady Macbeth, as Magda, there was no one to touch her. I was not only an admirer of her art, I was a personal friend."

Poirot let the woman sit for a while, gathering composure. 

"Margaret, she is dead?"  
"No, no, she is alive, but she lives in complete retirement. Her health is very delicate, and she has to lie on a sofa most of the time."  
"There was, I think, other children of Margaret?"  
"Yes, mostly much older than Mrs. Potter."

"But they are alive?"  
"Certainly." Princess McGonagall-Dragomiroff said plainly.  
"Where are they?" Poirot urged.

The old woman bent an acute glance at him.

"I must ask you the reason for these questions. What have they to do with the matter in hand—the murder on this train?"  
"They are connected in this way, Madame: the man who was murdered was the man responsible for the kidnapping and murder of Mrs. Potter's child- your second goddaughter."

"Ah!" The straight brows came together. Princess McGonagall-Dragomiroff drew herself a little more erect, paused, and then continued.

"In my view, then, Monsieur, this murder is an entirely admirable happening! You will pardon my slightly biased point of view."  
"It is most natural, Madame. And now to return to the question you did not answer. Where are the other Prewett children? And maybe also, the Potter children?"  
"I honestly cannot tell you, Monsieur. I have lost touch with the younger generations."

She paused a minute and then said: "Is there anything further you want to ask me, gentlemen?"

"Only one thing, Madame, a somewhat personal question. The colour of your dressing-gown."

She raised her eyebrows slightly. "I must suppose you have a reason for such a question. My dressing-gown is of black satin."  
"There is nothing more, Madame. I am much obliged to you for answering my questions so promptly." Poirot bowed his head as he spoke. 

She made a slight gesture with her heavily be-ringed hand. Then as she rose, and the others rose with her in respect, she stopped.

"You will excuse me, Monsieur," she said, "but may I ask your name? Your face is somehow familiar to me."  
"My name, Madame, is Hercule Poirot—at your service."

She was silent a minute, then: "Hercule Poirot," she said. "Yes. I remember now. This. Is. Destiny."

She walked away, very erect, a little stiff in her movements. But with a stride that was equal only to the Goddess of Wisdom, Minerva, after which she was named. 

"Voilà une grande dame," said Bouc. "What do you think of her then, my friend? Not so delicate in mind this one?"

But Hercule Poirot merely shook his head in disbelief.

"I am simply wondering," he said, "what she meant by Destiny!"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Roles Characters Fill:
> 
> Hercule Poirot - As Himself.
> 
> Dr. Constantine - As Himself.
> 
> The Conductor - As Himself.
> 
> M. Bouc. - As Himself.
> 
> Hermione Granger - As Mary Hermione Debenham.
> 
> Ron Weasley - As Colonel Arbuthnot.
> 
> William 'Bill' Weasley - As Count Andrenyi.
> 
> Fleur Delacour - As Countess Helena Maria Andrenyi (nee Goldenberg).
> 
> Molly Weasley - As Mrs. Hubbard/Linda Arden (Goldenberg).
> 
> Draco Malfoy - As Hector MacQueen.
> 
> Minerva McGonagall - As Princess Natalia Dragomiroff.
> 
> Sybil Trelawney - As Hildegarde Schmidt.
> 
> Luna Lovegood - As Greta Ohlsson.
> 
> Remus Lupin - As Cyrus Bethman Hardman.
> 
> Neville Longbottom - As Edward Henry Masterman.
> 
> Tom Riddle/Lord Voldemort - As Ratchett/Casetti: The Murder Victim.
> 
> Nymphadora Tonks - As the nursemaid, Susanne (DECEASED). 
> 
> Harry Potter - As Colonel Armstrong (DECEASED).
> 
> Ginevra Potter - As Sonia Armstrong (DECEASED).
> 
> Lily Luna Potter - As Daisy Armstrong (DECEASED).


	16. The Evidence of Count and Countess Delacour

Count and Countess Delacour were next summoned. The Count, however, entered the dining-car alone.

There was no doubt that he was a fine-looking man seen face to face. Poirot took to him in the same way he took to Miss Granger. He was at least six feet in height, with broad shoulders and slender hips. He was dressed in very well-cut English tweeds and might have been mistaken for an Englishman had it not been for the length of his moustache and something in the line of the cheekbone. His deep scar, on the right cheek, did little to harm his appearance. 

"Well, Messieurs," Count Delacour said, "what can I do for you?"  
"You understand, Monsieur," said Poirot, "that in view of what has occurred I am obliged to put certain questions to all the passengers."  
"Perfectly, perfectly," said the Count easily. "I quite understand your position. Not, I fear, that my wife and I can do much to assist you. We were asleep and heard nothing at all."

"Are you aware of the identity of the deceased, Monsieur?"  
"I understood it was the bald American—a man with a decidedly unpleasant face. He sat at that table at meal times." He indicated with a nod of his head the table of the restaurant car at which Riddle and Malfoy had sat when the train left York.

"Yes, yes, Monsieur le Count, you are perfectly correct. I meant—did you know the name of the man?"  
"No." The Count looked thoroughly puzzled by Poirot's queries.  
"If you want to know his name," he said, "surely it is on his passport?"  
"The name on his passport is Riddle," said Poirot. "But that, Monsieur, is not his real name. He is the man Voldemort, who was responsible for a celebrated kidnapping outrage in America." 

Poirot watched the Count closely as he spoke, but the latter seemed quite unaffected by this piece of news. He merely opened his eyes a little.

"Ah!" he said. "That certainly should throw light upon the matter. An extraordinary country, America."  
"You have been there, perhaps, Monsieur le Count?"  
"I was in Washington for a year once."

"You knew, perhaps, the Potter family?"  
"Potter—Potter—it is difficult to recall. Well, one met so many." He smiled, shrugged his shoulders. "But to come back to the matter in hand, gentlemen," he said. "What more can I do to assist you?"

"You retired to rest—when, Monsieur le Count?" Poirot asked.

Hercule Poirot's eyes stole to his plan. Count and Countess Delacour occupied compartment 7 and 6 adjoining.

The Count began: "We had one compartment made up for the night whilst we were in the dining-car. On returning we sat in the other for a while—"  
"Which number would that be?"  
"No. 7. We played chess together. At about eleven o'clock my wife retired for the night. The conductor made up my compartment, 6, and I also went to bed. I slept soundly until morning."

"Did you notice the stopping of the train?"  
"I was not aware of it till this morning."  
"And your wife?"

The Count smiled and replied.

"Fleur always takes a sleeping draught when travelling by train. She took her usual dose of trional." He paused. "I am sorry I am not able to assist you in any way."

Poirot passed him a sheet of paper and a pen.

"Thank you, Monsieur le Count. It is a formality, but will you just let me have your name and address?"  
The Count wrote slowly and carefully.

"It is just as well that I should write this for you," he said pleasantly. "The spelling of our estate is a little difficult for those unacquainted with the language."  
"But Monsiuer, I am Belgian?" Poirot said.  
"Oh- yes- of course, the Belgian speak French too, don't they?" The Count said sheepishly. 

Poirot was confused. 

The Count passed the paper across to Poirot

"Alexandre Delacour" it read. Just as his passport did. Poirot hummed. 

"I cannot help but notice that you have the same name as your wife's father Monsieur le Count?" he said.  
"Yes, this is correct Monsieur, coincidences, coincidences" he replied quickly, and then rose.

"It will be quite unnecessary for my wife to come here," he said. "She can tell you nothing more than I have."

A little gleam came into Poirot's eye.

"Doubtless, doubtless," he said. "But all the same I think I should like to have just one little word with Madame la Countess."  
"I assure you it is quite unnecessary." The Count's voice rang out authoritatively.

Poirot blinked gently at him, and then spoke with equal firmness.

"It will be a mere formality," he said. "But, you understand, it is necessary for my report."  
"As. You. Please." The Count gave way grudgingly. 

He made a short bow and left the restaurant car.

Poirot reached out a hand to a passport. It set out the Count's names and titles. A spot of grease had been dropped on it at some time by a careless official on the date of expiry.

He then retrieved the Countess's passport, it looked much newer, and was much cleaner. 

“Christian name, Fleur; Middle name, Isabelle; maiden name, Delacour; age, twenty nine.”

"How cosmopolitan," Poirot began, "a gentleman taking his wife's surname". 

Bouc ignored this comment and spoke. "Diplomatic passports, we must be careful, my friend, to give no offence. These people can have nothing to do with the murder."  
"Be easy, mon vieux, I will be most tactful. A mere formality." Poirot's voice dropped as the Countess Delacour entered the dining-car.

She looked timid and extremely charming.

"You wish to see me, Messieurs?" she said, in a soft and beautifully elegant French voice.

"A mere formality, Madame la Countess." Poirot rose gallantly, and bowed her into the seat opposite him. "It is only to ask you if you saw or heard anything last night that may throw light upon this matter."

"Nothing at all, Monsieur. I was asleep."  
"You did not hear, for instance, a commotion going on in the carriage? The American lady had quite an attack of hysterics and rang for the conductor."  
"I heard nothing, Monsieur. You see, I had taken a sleeping draught."  
"Ah! I comprehend. Well, I need not detain you further." Then, as she rose swiftly—"Just one little minute. These particulars—your maiden name, age and so on—they are correct?"  
"Quite correct, Monsieur."  
"Perhaps you will sign this memorandum to that effect, then."

She sat back down and signed quickly, in a graceful slanting hand-writing— "Fleur Isabelle Delacour".  
It was simply a way of holding her longer for questions, without Poirot coming across as rude or abrupt. 

"Out of interest, did you accompany your husband to America, Madame?"  
"I was already there, staying with my guardians, Monsieur." She smiled, then flushed a little. "But we were not married then; we have been married only little over a year."

"If I may Madame, I would like to give my condolences to you," Poirot began, and Bouc's eyes widened in horror, "a tragedy what those Germans did to your estate and family in the war".  
"Thank you, Monsieur" she replied, somehow even softer in voice, then rose to try and leave again. 

"Madame. By the way, does your husband smoke?"  
She stared at him as she stood poised for departure.

"Yes."  
"A pipe?"  
"No. Cigarettes only, and very rarely."  
"Ah! Thank you Madame la Countess."

She lingered, her eyes watching him curiously. Lovely eyes they were, sparkly blue and almond-shaped with very long black lashes that swept the exquisite pallor of her cheeks. Not only was she as physically attractive as her husband, or Miss Granger, she was far more so. Her lips, very scarlet in the foreign fashion, were parted just a little. She looked exotic and beautiful.

"Why did you ask me that?"  
"Madame," Poirot waved an airy hand, "detectives have to ask all sorts of questions. For instance, perhaps you will tell me the colour of your dressing-gown?"  
She stared at him. Then she laughed. "It is sky-coloured chiffon. Is that really important?"  
"Very important, Madame."

She asked curiously: "Are you really a detective, then?"  
"At your service, Madame." Poirot smiled.  
"I thought there were no detectives on the train when it passed through England and Scotland—only on the continental trains."  
"I am not a police detective, Madame. I am an international detective."

There was a pause.

"You belong to the League of Nations?" she offered as an explanation.  
"Not quite, but I belong to the world, Madame," said Poirot dramatically. He went on: "I work mainly in London. You speak English?" he added in that language.  
"I speak a little, yes." Her French accent was charming.  
"Does your husband know much English?" Poirot then said.  
"Yes- he was raised-" She hesitated, "Being taught many languages."

Poirot bowed once more.

"We will not detain you further, Madame. You see, it was not so very terrible."  
She smiled, inclined her head and departed.

"Elle est jolie femme," said M. Bouc appreciatively. He sighed. "Well, that did not advance us much."  
"No," replied Poirot. "Two people who apparently saw nothing and heard nothing."

"Shall we now see the Lupin man finally?" Bouc said, once again trying to further his rather fruitless theory. 

Poirot did not reply for a moment. He was studying a grease spot on a French diplomatic passport. 

When he did reply, it was a shake of the head, much to Bouc's disappointment.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Roles Characters Fill:
> 
> Hercule Poirot - As Himself.
> 
> Dr. Constantine - As Himself.
> 
> The Conductor - As Himself.
> 
> M. Bouc. - As Himself.
> 
> Hermione Granger - As Mary Hermione Debenham.
> 
> Ron Weasley - As Colonel Arbuthnot.
> 
> William 'Bill' Weasley - As Count Andrenyi.
> 
> Fleur Delacour - As Countess Helena Maria Andrenyi (nee Goldenberg).
> 
> Molly Weasley - As Mrs. Hubbard/Linda Arden (Goldenberg).
> 
> Draco Malfoy - As Hector MacQueen.
> 
> Minerva McGonagall - As Princess Natalia Dragomiroff.
> 
> Sybil Trelawney - As Hildegarde Schmidt.
> 
> Luna Lovegood - As Greta Ohlsson.
> 
> Remus Lupin - As Cyrus Bethman Hardman.
> 
> Neville Longbottom - As Edward Henry Masterman.
> 
> Tom Riddle/Lord Voldemort - As Ratchett/Casetti: The Murder Victim.
> 
> Nymphadora Tonks - As the nursemaid, Susanne (DECEASED). 
> 
> Harry Potter - As Colonel Armstrong (DECEASED).
> 
> Ginevra Potter - As Sonia Armstrong (DECEASED).
> 
> Lily Luna Potter - As Daisy Armstrong (DECEASED).


	17. The Evidence of Colonel Weasley

Poirot roused himself with a slight start. His eyes twinkled a little as they met the eager ones of M. Bouc.

"Ah! my dear old friend," he said, "you see I have become what they call the snob! The first class, I feel it should be attended to before the second class. Next, I think, we will interview the good Colonel Weasley."

The Colonel was summoned presently.

Finding the Colonel's French to be of a severely limited description, Poirot conducted his interrogatory in English.

Weasley's name, age, home address and exact muggle military standing were all ascertained. 

Poirot proceeded: "It is that you come home from India on what is called the leave— what we can call en permission?"  
Colonel Weasley, uninterested in what a pack of foreigners called anything, replied with true British brevity, "Yes."

"But you do not come home on the P. & O. steamer?"  
"No."  
"Why not Colonel?"  
"I chose to come by the overland route for reasons of my own." ("And that," his manner seemed to say, "is one for you, you interfering little jackanapes.")

"So, you came straight through from India?"  
The Colonel hesitated, and then replied drily: "I stopped for three days in Istanbul with an old friend of mine."  
"You stopped three days in Istanbul? I understand that the young English lady, Miss Granger, also comes from Istanbul. Perhaps you meet her there?"

"No, I did not. I first met Miss Granger briefly when she and I shared the train from Paris to Calais, then I saw her again when I boarded this train at London."

Poirot leaned forward. He became persuasive and sounded a little more foreign than he need have been.

"Monsieur, I am about to appeal to you. You and Miss Granger are the only two English people of your set on this train. It is necessary that I should ask you each your opinion of the other."  
"Highly irregular," said Colonel Weasley coldly.

"Not so. You see, this crime, it was possibly committed by a passionate woman. The man was stabbed no fewer than twelve times. Even the chef de train said at once, 'It is a woman.' Well, then, what is my first task? To give all the women travelling on the train what Americans call the 'once-over.' But to judge a sophisticated Englishwoman is difficult. They are very reserved. So I appeal to you, Monsieur, in the interest of justice. What sort of person is this Miss Granger? What do you know about her?"

"Hermione," said the Colonel with some warmth, "is a lady."

This was a fact that had escaped nobody's notice. 

"Ah!" said Poirot with every appearance of being much gratified. "So you do not think that she is likely to be implicated in this crime?"  
"The idea is absurd," said Weasley. "The man was a perfect stranger—she had never seen him before."  
"Did she tell you so?"  
"She did. She commented at once upon his somewhat unpleasant appearance. If a woman is concerned, as you seem to think (to my mind without any evidence but on a mere assumption), I can assure you that Miss Granger could not possibly be implicated."

"You feel warmly in the matter," stated Poirot with a smile.  
Colonel Weasley gave him a cold stare. "I really don't know what you mean," he said.

The stare seemed to abash Poirot. He dropped his eyes and began fiddling with the papers in front of him.

"Let us be practical and come to facts Colonel. This crime, we have reason to believe, took place at a quarter past one last night. It is necessary to ask everyone on the train what he or she was doing at that time."  
"Quite so. At a quarter past one, to the best of my belief, I was talking to the young British-American fellow—secretary to the dead man." Weasley replied. 

"Ah! Now Colonel, were you in his compartment, or was he in yours?"  
"I was in his, as you would have seen."  
"Indeed. And that is the young man of the name of Draco Malfoy?"  
"Yes."

"He was a friend or acquaintance of yours?"  
"No. We fell into casual conversation yesterday and both became interested. I don't as a rule like those types—haven't any use for 'em—"

Poirot smiled, remembering Malfoy's strictures on "Pure Britishers."  
Malfoy was of a same class as Weasley, or going by his family's country estate, a class above Weasley, yet his time in America nulled this completely to the Colonel.

"—but I liked this young fellow. He'd got hold of some tomfool idiotic ideas about the situation in India. That's the worst of British people in America—they're so sentimental and idealistic. Well, he was interested in what I had to tell him. I've had nearly thirty years' experience of the country. And I was interested in what he had to tell me about the working of Prohibition in America. Then we got down to world politics in general. I was quite surprised to look at my watch and find it was a quarter to two."

"That is the time you broke up this conversation?"  
"Yes."  
"What did you do then?"  
"Walked along to my own compartment and turned in."

"Your bed was made up ready?" Poirot asked, sure the Colonel would only answer in the affirmative.  
"Yes." The Colonel replied. Again.  
"That is the compartment—let me see— 5—the one next to his, but nearer the bar-car?"  
"Yes."

"Where was the conductor when you went to your compartment?"  
"Sitting at the end at a little chair. As a matter of fact Malfoy called him just as I considered returning to my own compartment."  
"Why did he call him?"  
"To make up his bed, I suppose. The compartment hadn't been made up for the night."

"Now, Colonel Weasley, I want you to think carefully. During the time you were talking to Mr. Malfoy, did anyone pass along the corridor outside the door?"  
"A good many people, I should think. I wasn't paying attention."

Poirot nodded before continuing. 

"Ah! but I am referring to—let us say, the last hour and a half of your conversation. You got out at Rannoch, didn't you?"  
"Yes, but only for about a minute. There was a blizzard on. The cold was something frightful. Made one quite thankful to get back to the indoors, though as a rule I think the way these trains are overheated is something scandalous."

M. Bouc sighed. "It is very difficult to please everybody," he said. "The English they open everything—then others they come along and shut everything. It is very difficult."

Neither Poirot nor Colonel Weasley paid any attention to him.

"Now, Monsieur, cast your mind back," said Poirot encouragingly. "It was cold outside. You have returned to the train. You sit down again, you smoke—perhaps a cigarette—perhaps a pipe—"

He paused for the fraction of a second.

"A pipe for me, yes. Malfoy smokes cigarettes I believe."  
"The train starts again. You smoke your pipe. You discuss the state of Europe—of the world. It is late now. Most people have retired for the night. Does anyone pass the door? Think."

Weasley frowned in the effort of remembrance.

"Difficult to say," he said. "You see, I wasn't paying any attention."  
"But you have the Auror's observation for detail. You notice without noticing, so to speak."

The Colonel thought again, the Auror title going over his head, which he then shook in response.

"I couldn't say. I don't remember anyone passing except the conductor. Wait a minute—and there was a woman, I think."  
"You saw her? Was she old or young?"  
"Didn't see her. Wasn't looking that way. Just a rustle and a sort of smell of scent."  
"Scent? A good scent?"

"Well, rather fruity, if you know what I mean. I mean you'd smell it a hundred yards away. But mind you," the Colonel went on hastily, "this may have been earlier in the evening. You see, as you said just now, it was just one of those things you notice without noticing, so to speak. Some time that evening I said to myself—'Woman—scent—got it on pretty thick.' But when it was I can't be sure, except that—why, yes, it must have been after Rannoch."

"Why?" Poirot asked.  
"Because I remember—sniffing, you know—just when I was talking about the utter washout Stalin's Five Year Plan was turning out. I know the idea woman brought the idea of the position of women in Russia into my mind. And I know we hadn't got on to Russia until pretty near the end of our talk."

"You can't pin it down more definitely than that?"  
"N-no. It must have been roughly within the last half-hour."  
"It was after the train had stopped?"  
The Colonel nodded emphatically. "Yes, I'm almost sure it was."

"Well, we will pass from that. Have you ever been in America, Colonel Weasley?"  
"Never. Don't want to go."

There was a pause, and Poirot gave a warm smile.

"Did you ever know by any chance, an Auror- er- er- Colonel Potter?"

"Potter—Potter—I've known two or three Potters. There was Tommy Potter in the 60th—you don't mean him? And Selby Potter—he was killed in the Somme."

"I mean the Potter who married a beautiful red-haired wife, and whose only little girl was kidnapped and killed."

There was a great pause. 

"But, yes, I remember reading about that—shocking affair. I don't think I actually ever came across the fellow, though of course I knew of him. Harry James Potter. Nice fellow. Everybody liked him. He had a very distinguished career, in more than one sense. Got the Victoria Cross in the Great War, and the Order of Merlin too."

"The man who was killed last night was the man responsible for the murder of his daughter."

There was another pause.

Suddenly, Weasley's face grew rather grim. "Then in my opinion the snake deserved what he got. Though I would have preferred to see him properly hanged—or electrocuted, I suppose, over there."

"In fact, Colonel Weasley, you prefer law and order to private vengeance?"  
"Well, you can't go about having blood feuds and stabbing each other like Death Eaters or the Mafia," said the Colonel. "Say what you like, trial by jury is a sound system."

Poirot looked at him thoughtfully for a minute or two.

"Yes," he said. I am sure that would be your view. Well, Colonel, even if it did fail the Potters in this case. However, I do not think there is anything more I have to ask you. There is nothing you yourself can recall last night that in any way struck you—or shall we say strikes you now, looking back—as suspicious?"

Weasley considered for a moment or two.

"No," he said. "Nothing at all. Unless—" he hesitated.  
"But yes, continue, I pray of you."  
"Well, it's nothing really," said the Colonel slowly. "But you said anything."  
"Yes, yes. Go on."

"Oh! it's nothing. A mere detail. But as I got back to my compartment I noticed that the door of one beyond mine— one near the end one, you know—"  
"Yes? The victim's? "  
"Well, the door of it was not quite closed. And the fellow inside peered out in a furtive sort of way. Then he pulled the door to quickly. Of course I know there's nothing in that—but it just struck me as a bit odd. I mean, it's quite usual to open a door and stick your head out if you want to see anything. But it was the furtive way he did it that caught my attention."

"Ye-es," said Poirot doubtfully.

"I told you there was nothing to it," said Weasley, apologetically. "But you know what it is—early hours of the morning—everything very still. The thing had a sinister look—like a detective story. All nonsense really."

He rose. 

"Well, Mr. Poirot, if you don't want me any more—"  
"Thank you, Colonel Weasley, there is indeed nothing else."

The ginger man hesitated for a minute. For a moment, other than the terrible state of his sun-burnt skin, he looked very similar to, though younger than, the Count.  
His first apparent distaste for being questioned by "foreigners" had completely evaporated. 

"About Miss Granger," he said rather awkwardly. "You can take it from me that she's all right. She's a pukka sahib." Flushing a little, he withdrew.

"What," asked Dr. Constantine with interest, "does a pukka sahib mean?"  
"It means," said Poirot, "that Miss Granger's father and males of the family were at the same kind of school as Colonel Weasley was, that she is therefore from a similar respectable class."

"Oh! said Dr. Constantine, disappointed. "Then it has nothing to do with the crime at all."  
"Exactly,", said, Poirot.

He fell into a reverie, beating a light tune on the table. Then he looked up.

"Colonel Weasley smokes a pipe," he said. "In the compartment of Mr. Riddle I found a pipe-cleaner. Mr. Riddle smoked only cigars."  
"Poirot, you think—?" the Greek man asked.  
"He is the only man so far who admits to smoking a pipe. And he knew of Colonel Potter—perhaps actually did know him, though he won't admit it."  
"So you think it possible—?"

Poirot shook his head violently. "That is just it—it is impossible—quite impossible—that an honourable, slightly stupid, clumsy, upright Englishman should stab an enemy twelve times with a knife! Do you not feel, my friends, how impossible it is?"

"That is the psychology," said M. Bouc.

"And one must respect the psychology. This crime has a signature, and it is certainly not the signature of Colonel Weasley, at least not him alone. But now to our next interview!"

This time M. Bouc did not mention the man with the tan suits. He knew his friend would dismiss it. Nonetheless, he thought of him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Roles Characters Fill:
> 
> Hercule Poirot - As Himself.
> 
> Dr. Constantine - As Himself.
> 
> The Conductor - As Himself.
> 
> M. Bouc. - As Himself.
> 
> Hermione Granger - As Mary Hermione Debenham.
> 
> Ron Weasley - As Colonel Arbuthnot.
> 
> William 'Bill' Weasley - As Count Andrenyi.
> 
> Fleur Delacour - As Countess Helena Maria Andrenyi (nee Goldenberg).
> 
> Molly Weasley - As Mrs. Hubbard/Linda Arden (Goldenberg).
> 
> Draco Malfoy - As Hector MacQueen.
> 
> Minerva McGonagall - As Princess Natalia Dragomiroff.
> 
> Sybil Trelawney - As Hildegarde Schmidt.
> 
> Luna Lovegood - As Greta Ohlsson.
> 
> Remus Lupin - As Cyrus Bethman Hardman.
> 
> Neville Longbottom - As Edward Henry Masterman.
> 
> Tom Riddle/Lord Voldemort - As Ratchett/Casetti: The Murder Victim.
> 
> Nymphadora Tonks - As the nursemaid, Susanne (DECEASED). 
> 
> Harry Potter - As Colonel Armstrong (DECEASED).
> 
> Ginevra Potter - As Sonia Armstrong (DECEASED).
> 
> Lily Luna Potter - As Daisy Armstrong (DECEASED).


	18. The Evidence of Remus Lupin

Poirot sighed, watching his friend Bouc, and then smiled. 

"And now," said Poirot with a twinkle in his eye, "we will delight the heart of Bouc and see the man with the tan suits!"  
"And that will not interfere with your order of things, the first class ones first?" Bouc said pretending to be amiable.  
"My friend, you harping on about the man will interfere far more with my order of things!" Poirot quipped back. 

"Besides," Constantine added, "The Princess's maid? I am sure she knows very little, she seems very simple, and addicted to sherry".

Remus Lupin was the man who had shared a table with the the valet on the day of departing York.

He wore a somewhat plain tan suit, but in contrast, a checked shirt, and a loud tie. Lupin was chewing gum as he entered the dining-car. Poirot examined him more properly than when they were out of York: the man had a pale, coarse-featured face, dotted with several scratches, perhaps from an automobiling accident, or an incident with a werewolf. His hair was auburn, and matched a moustache on his face. Most noticeably though, he had a kind and a good-humoured expression.

"Morning, gentlemen," he said. "What can I do for you?"  
"You have heard of this murder, Mr. Lupin?"

"Sure." He shifted the chewing gum deftly in his mouth.  
"We are of necessity interviewing all the passengers on the train."  
"That's perfectly understandable. Guess that's the only way to tackle the task."

Poirot searched the papers in front of him.

"I note that you do not carry a passport?" Poirot said.  
"No, I do not need one for this journey, I've never left Britain, I do however, have my usual ID." The man proffered this.

"You are Remus John Lupin, United Kingdom subject, forty years of age, travelling salesman for confectionary?"  
"That's me."  
"And you are travelling to Hogsmeade?"  
"Correct."  
"Reason?"  
"Business."

"Do you always travel on a luxury train, Mr. Lupin?"  
"Yes, sir. Honeyduke's presently pays my travelling expenses. " Lupin winked.

Poirot liked this fellow, sharp and humourous.

"Now, Mr. Lupin, we come to the events of last night."

The auburn-haired man nodded.

"What can you tell us about the matter?" Poirot asked.  
"Exactly nothing at all sir."

"Ah, that is a pity. Perhaps, Mr. Lupin, you will tell us exactly what you did last night from dinner onwards?" 

For the first time the man did not seem ready with his reply. 

At last he said: "Excuse me, gentlemen, but who are you? Put me wise."

Poirot started his own speech, "This is M. Bouc, a director of the Compagnie des Wagons Lits. This gentleman is the doctor who examined the body."

"And you yourself?" Lupin asked.  
"I am Hercule Poirot. I am engaged by the company to investigate this matter."

"I've heard of you," said Mr. Lupin. He reflected a minute or two longer. "Guess I'd better come clean."  
"It will certainly be advisable for you to tell us all you know," said Poirot drily.

"I know nothing at all—just as I said. But I should know something. That's what makes me feel awful. I should, but don't."

Remus Lupin sighed, removed the chewing gum, and dived into a pocket. At the same time his whole personality seemed to undergo a change. He became less of a stage character and more of a real person.

"That ID from just now is a bit of bluff," he said. "This one is who I really am."

Poirot scrutinised the card flipped across to him. M. Bouc peered, but could not see.

"Remus John Lupin, member of the Order of The Phoenix, Ministry Officials are to give way to this man." it said. 

Poirot knew of the Order.

"Now, Mr. Lupin, at least you have not lied about your name" he said, "but let us hear the meaning of this."  
"Sure. Things came about this way. I'd come to London trailing a couple of Death Eaters—nothing to do with this business. The chase ended in Whitehall. I spoke to my associates and got permission to return, and I  
would have been making my tracks back home when I got this."

He pushed across a letter to Poirot.

"Dear Sir:

You have been pointed out to me as an operative of the Order of The Phoenix.  
Kindly report at my compartment at four o'clock this afternoon.

T. M. Riddle." 

"Eh bien?" Poirot said, astonished at the idea of Lord Voldemort contacting a member of the Order.  
"I reported at the time stated, and Mr. Riddle put me wise to the situation. He showed me a couple of letters he'd got. He was rattled. I was to see that nobody got him. Well, gentlemen, I did travel by the same train, albeit in a different carriage, and in spite of me, somebody did get him. I certainly feel bad about it. It doesn't look too good on me, or the skills of the Order."

"Did he give you any indication of the line you were to take?"

"Sure. He had it all taped out. It was his idea that I should travel in the compartment alongside his. Well, that blew up at the start. I believe that's your compartment. So, the only place I could get was compartment 16 in the other carriage, with the valet. When I looked all round the situation, it seemed to me that yours was a pretty good strategic position. But 16 was in a most useless position."

"You have no idea then, I suppose, of the identity of the possible assailant?"  
"Well, I knew what he looked like. Mr. Riddle described him to me."

All three men leaned forward eagerly.

Remus Lupin went on. 

"A very small man—dark—with a womanish kind of voice. That's what the old man said. Said, too, that he didn't think it would be definitely on the train, maybe not until we were settled in Scotland."

"He knew something," said M. Bouc.  
"He certainly knew more than he told his secretary," commented Poirot thoughtfully. "Did he tell you anything about this enemy of his? Did he, for instance, say why his life was threatened?"  
"No, he was quiet about that part of it. He just said that there were people out for his blood."

"A small man—dark—with a womanish voice," repeated Poirot thoughtfully. Then, fixing a sharp glance on Lupin, he asked: "You knew who he really was, of course?"  
"Who?"  
"Riddle. You recognised him?"  
"I don't understand you."

There was a dramatic pause.

"Mr. Lupin, the man Riddle, was Lord Voldemort; the Potter murderer."

Mr. Lupin gave way to a prolonged and exaggerated whistle.

"That certainly is a surprise!" he said. "No, I didn't recognise him. I was away when that case came in. I suppose I saw photos of him in the Prophet, but I wouldn't recognise myself when a newspaper like the Prophet got through with me. Well, I don't doubt that a few people had it in for Voldemort all right."

Do you know of anyone connected with the Potter case who answers to that description: small—dark—womanish voice?"

Lupin reflected a minute or two. "It's hard to say. Pretty nearly everyone connected with that case is dead."

"There was the girl who threw herself out of the window, remember?" Poirot asked gently.

Lupin was dreadfully shocked at the mention of Nymphadora Tonks. 

"Sure. That's a good point, that. Maybe she had some vengeful relations. But you've got to remember that there were other cases besides the Potter one. Voldemort had been running his vile campaign against humanity for some time. You can't concentrate on that only." Lupin replied, voice slightly shaken. 

Ah, but we have reason to believe that this crime is connected with the Potter case, Mr. Lupin..."

Remus Lupin cocked an inquiring eye. Poirot did not respond. The tan-suited man shook his head.

"I can't call to mind anybody answering that description in the Potter case," he said slowly. "But of course I wasn't in it and didn't know much about it."  
"Well, continue your narrative, Mr. Lupin."

"There's very little to tell. Nothing suspicious happened, as far as I was concerned. I had my door a little ajar before the train left and watched, sometimes passed down the corridors."  
"You are sure of that, Mr. Lupin?"  
"I'm certain. Nobody got on that train from outside. I'll take an oath on that."

"Are you sure nothing out of the ordinary happened?"

Lupin paused.

"I must confess, I fell asleep after we departed. The valet seemed so upset that I thought it best we turn in for the night. But, there was a bell ringing like mad at one point, from Mr. Riddle's carriage. The conductors had been talking outside my door, and the second, the one not from may carriage went back to yours, running. I asked this morning to see what it was all about— felt a mite nervous, you understand—but it was only the American lady. She was raising hell about something. But I was told everything had been fine".

Poirot nodded. Automatically his hands straightened the papers on the table. He picked up the Order of the Phoenix card once more.  
"Be so good as just to initial this," he said.

The other complied. 

"There is no one, I suppose, who can confirm your story of your identity, Mr. Lupin?"

Lupin paused, and then smiled kindly. 

"On this train? Well, not exactly. Unless it might be young Mr. Weasley. I know him well enough—I've seen him before. But that's not to say he'll remember me from a crowd of other operatives. No, Mr. Poirot, you'll have to wait and contact Grimmauld Place when the snow lets up. But it's O.K. I'm not telling a tale. Well, so long, gentlemen. Pleased to have met you, Mr. Poirot."

Poirot detained him from leaving at the last moment."Oh, one last thing, Mr. Lupin, do you smoke a pipe?"  
"Not me, Mr. Poirot, don't smoke, I stick to chocolate and tea." Lupin then strode briskly off.

Poirot, Constantine, and Bouc, looked at each other.

"You think he is genuine?" asked Dr. Constantine.

Poirot thought, and then spoke, nodding gently. 

"Yes, yes. I know the type. Besides, it is a story that would be very easy to disprove, why would he admit falling asleep otherwise?"

"He has given us a piece of very interesting evidence," said M. Bouc slowly.  
"Yes, indeed." Poirot replied.  
"A small man—dark—with a high-pitched voice," said M. Bouc thoughtfully.

"A description which applies to no one on the train," added Poirot quickly. 

Bouc was frowning, his theory it seemed, had been proved wrong. A wave of guilt hit him. 

"Next, I think," Poirot said, cutting Bouc's emotional thought short, "We will see the most intelligent of our passengers, Miss Hermione Granger".

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Roles Characters Fill:
> 
> Hercule Poirot - As Himself.
> 
> Dr. Constantine - As Himself.
> 
> The Conductor - As Himself.
> 
> M. Bouc. - As Himself.
> 
> Hermione Granger - As Mary Hermione Debenham.
> 
> Ron Weasley - As Colonel Arbuthnot.
> 
> William 'Bill' Weasley - As Count Andrenyi.
> 
> Fleur Delacour - As Countess Helena Maria Andrenyi (nee Goldenberg).
> 
> Molly Weasley - As Mrs. Hubbard/Linda Arden (Goldenberg).
> 
> Draco Malfoy - As Hector MacQueen.
> 
> Minerva McGonagall - As Princess Natalia Dragomiroff.
> 
> Sybil Trelawney - As Hildegarde Schmidt.
> 
> Luna Lovegood - As Greta Ohlsson.
> 
> Remus Lupin - As Cyrus Bethman Hardman.
> 
> Neville Longbottom - As Edward Henry Masterman.
> 
> Tom Riddle/Lord Voldemort - As Ratchett/Casetti: The Murder Victim.
> 
> Nymphadora Tonks - As the nursemaid, Susanne (DECEASED). 
> 
> Harry Potter - As Colonel Armstrong (DECEASED).
> 
> Ginevra Potter - As Sonia Armstrong (DECEASED).
> 
> Lily Luna Potter - As Daisy Armstrong (DECEASED).


	19. The Evidence of Hermione Granger

When Hermione Granger entered the dining-car she confirmed Poirot's previous estimate of her. She was very neatly dressed in a red suit with a French grey shirt, and the smooth waves of her dark head were tamed unnaturally, so that they sat neat and unruffled. And her manner it seemed, was as calm and unruffled as her hair. And yet, just as her hair wished to be free, so did her manner. 

She sat down opposite Poirot and M. Bouc and looked at them inquiringly.

"Your name is Hermione Jean Debenham Granger, and you are twenty-nine years of age?" began Poirot.  
"Yes." Hermione said, with an inexpressive face.  
"English?"  
"Yes."

Her answers were brief like Colonel's Weasley's, but her voice was sharper, colder, and far more impatient. 

"Will you be so kind, Mademoiselle, as to write down your permanent address on this piece of paper?"

She complied. Her writing was clear and legible.

"And now, Mademoiselle, what have you to tell us of the affair last night?"  
"I am afraid I have nothing to tell you. I went to bed and slept." Hermione was now smiling. 

"Does it distress you very much, Mademoiselle, that a crime has been committed on this train?"

The question was clearly unexpected. Her eyes widened a little, the smile wiped off her face.

"I don't quite understand you sir?"

Now it was Poirot who smiled.

"It was a perfectly simple question that I asked you, Mademoiselle. I will repeat it. Are you very much distressed that a crime should have been committed on this train?"  
"I have not really thought about it from that point of view. No, I cannot say that I am at all distressed."  
"A crime—it is all in the day's work to you, eh?"  
"It is naturally an unpleasant thing to have happen," replied Hermione quietly.

"You are very Anglo-Saxon, Mademoiselle. Vous n'éprouvez pas d'émotion."

She smiled a little again as she deciphered his French. "I am afraid I cannot have hysterics to prove my sensibility. After all, people die every day."

Poirot paused for a moment, and then continued. "They die, yes. But murder is a little more rare."  
"Oh! Certainly."Hermione quickly said. 

"So, you were not acquainted with the dead man?"  
"I saw him for the first time when lunching in here."  
"And how did he strike you?"  
"I hardly noticed him."

"He did not impress you as an evil personality?"

She shrugged her shoulders slightly. "Really, I cannot say I thought about it."

Poirot looked at her keenly.

"You are, I think, a little bit contemptuous of the way I prosecute my inquiries," he said with a twinkle. "Not so, you think, would an English inquiry be conducted. There everything would be cut and dried—it would be all kept to the facts—a well-ordered business. But I, Mademoiselle, have my little originalities. I look first at my witness, I sum up his or her character, and I frame my questions accordingly. One day I am asking questions of a gentleman who wants to tell me all his ideas on every subject. Well, him I would keep strictly to the point. I want him to answer yes or no. This or that. And then you come. I see at once that you will be orderly and methodical. You will confine yourself to the matter in hand. Your answers will be brief and to the point. And because, Mademoiselle, human nature is perverse, I ask of you quite different questions. I ask what you feel, what you think. It does not please you, this method?"

Hermione tilted her head with attitude. 

"If you will forgive my saying so Mr. Poirot, it seems somewhat of a waste of time. Whether or not I liked Mr. Riddle's face does not seem likely to be helpful in finding out who killed him."  
"Do you know who the man Riddle really was, Mademoiselle?"

She nodded. 

"Molly has been telling everyone, even if they did not care to listen."  
"And what do you think of the Potter tragedy?"

The lady attempted to hide a frown. 

"It was quite abominable," said the girl crisply.

Poirot looked at her thoughtfully.

"You are travelling from Turkey, I believe, Miss Granger?"  
"Yes."  
"To Scotland?"  
"Yes."

"And what exactly have you been doing in Turkey?"  
"I have been acting as governess to two British children in Istanbul."  
"Are you returning to your post after your holiday?"  
"I am not."

Poirot paused in thought.

"Why is that Hermione?"  
"The world is rather out of things as far as being a Governess is concerned. I think I should prefer a post in London, in a new capacity if I can hear of a suitable one."  
"I see. I thought, perhaps, you might be going to be married."

Hermione did not reply. She raised her eyes and looked Poirot full in the face. The glance said plainly: "You are impertinent."

"What is your opinion of the lady who shares your compartment— Miss Lovegood?"  
"She seems a pleasant, perfectly intelligent creature, if a little strange."  
"What colour is her dressing-gown?"

Hermione stared in disbelief. "A kind of brownish colour I suppose—natural wool."  
"Ah! I may mention without indiscretion, I hope, that I noticed the colour of your dressing-gown on the way from London, when I bumped into you. A pale mauve, I believe?"  
"Yes, that is right."  
"Have you any other dressing-gown, Mademoiselle? A scarlet dressing-gown, for example?"  
"No. That, it is not mine."

Poirot moved forward. He was like a lion pouncing on a gazelle.

"Whose, then?!" Poirot exclaimed suddenly. 

The girl drew back a little, startled. "I don't know. What do you mean?"  
"You do not say, 'No, I have no such thing.' You say, 'That is not mine.' Meaning that such a thing does belong to someone else." 

She nodded.

"Somebody else on this train?"  
"Yes."  
"Whose is it?"  
"I told you just now: I don't know. I woke up this morning in the early hours with the feeling that the train had been standing still for a long time. I opened the door and looked out into the corridor, thinking we might be at a station. I saw someone in a scarlet kimono some way down the corridor."

"And you don't know who it was? Was she fair, or dark, or grey-haired?"

"I can't say. She had on a shingle cap and I only saw the back of her head."  
"And in build?"  
"Tallish and slim, I should judge, but it's difficult to say. But the kimono was embroidered with dragons."  
"Yes, yes, that is right—dragons." Poirot said, voice dry, and attitude slightly bitter. 

Poirot was silent a minute. He murmured to himself. "I cannot understand. I cannot understand. None of this makes sense."

Then, looking up again, he said: "I need not keep you further, Mademoiselle."  
"Oh!" Hermione seemed rather taken aback but rose promptly.

In the doorway, however, she hesitated a minute and then came back.

"Miss Lovegood, Luna, she— she seems rather worried. She says you told her she was the last person to see this man alive. She thinks, I believe, that you suspect her on that account. Can't I tell her that she has made a mistake? Really, you know, she is the kind of creature who wouldn't hurt a fly." She smiled a little as she spoke.

"What time was it that she went to fetch the aspirin from Molly Hubbard?"  
"Just after twenty-past ten."  
"She was away—how long?"  
"About five minutes."

Poirot paused, purely for dramatic effect.

"Did she leave the compartment again during the night?"  
"No. She did not."

Poirot turned to the doctor. "Could Riddle have been killed as early as that?"

Doctor Constantine shook his head.

"Then I think you can reassure your friend, Miss Granger."

"Thank you." She smiled suddenly at Poirot and the other two gentleman, a smile that invited sympathy. "Luna can be like a sheep, you know. She gets anxious and bleats."

Hermione then turned on her heel and went out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Roles Characters Fill:
> 
> Hercule Poirot - As Himself.
> 
> Dr. Constantine - As Himself.
> 
> The Conductor - As Himself.
> 
> M. Bouc. - As Himself.
> 
> Hermione Granger - As Mary Hermione Debenham.
> 
> Ron Weasley - As Colonel Arbuthnot.
> 
> William 'Bill' Weasley - As Count Andrenyi.
> 
> Fleur Delacour - As Countess Helena Maria Andrenyi (nee Goldenberg).
> 
> Molly Weasley - As Mrs. Hubbard/Linda Arden (Goldenberg).
> 
> Draco Malfoy - As Hector MacQueen.
> 
> Minerva McGonagall - As Princess Natalia Dragomiroff.
> 
> Sybil Trelawney - As Hildegarde Schmidt.
> 
> Luna Lovegood - As Greta Ohlsson.
> 
> Remus Lupin - As Cyrus Bethman Hardman.
> 
> Neville Longbottom - As Edward Henry Masterman.
> 
> Tom Riddle/Lord Voldemort - As Ratchett/Casetti: The Murder Victim.
> 
> Nymphadora Tonks - As the nursemaid, Susanne (DECEASED). 
> 
> Harry Potter - As Colonel Armstrong (DECEASED).
> 
> Ginevra Potter - As Sonia Armstrong (DECEASED).
> 
> Lily Luna Potter - As Daisy Armstrong (DECEASED).


	20. The Evidence of Sybil Trelawney

M. Bouc was looking at his friend curiously after Hermione left.

"I do not quite understand you, mon vieux. You were trying to do— what?"  
"I was searching for a flaw, my friend."  
"A flaw?"  
"Yes—in the armour of a young lady's self-possession. I wished to shake her sang-froid. Did I succeed? I do not know. But I know this: she did not expect me to tackle the matter as I did."

"You suspect her," said M. Bow slowly. "But why? She seems a very charming young lady—the last person in the world to be mixed up in a crime of this kind."

"I agree," said Constantine. "She is cold. She has not such vengeful emotions. She would not stab a man—she would sue him in the law courts."

Poirot sighed.

"You must, both of you, get rid of your obsession that this is an unpremeditated and sudden crime. As for the reasons why I suspect Miss Granger, there are two. One is because of something that I overheard, and that you do not as yet know."

He retailed to them the curious interchanges of words he had overheard on the journey from London, including most importantly, the conversation on the platform at Newcastle.

"That is curious, certainly," said M. Bouc when Poirot had finished. "It needs explaining. If it means what you suspect, then they are both of them in it together—she and the stiff Englishman."

Poirot simply nodded.

"And that is just what is not borne out by the facts," he began after a pause. "See, if they were both in this together, what should we expect to find? That each of them would provide an alibi for the other. Is not that so? But no—that does not happen. Miss Granger's alibi is provided by a woman whom she has supposedly never seen before, and Colonel Weasley's alibi is vouched for by Malfoy, the dead man's secretary. No, that solution of the puzzle is too easy, and more so, nonsensical."

"You said there was another reason for your suspicions of her though," Bouc, reminded him.

Poirot smiled. "Ah! but that is only psychological. I ask myself, is it possible for Miss Granger to have planned this crime? Behind this murder, I am convinced, there is a cool, intelligent, resourceful brain. Hermione Granger well answers to that description."

M. Bouc shook his head. "I think you are wrong, my friend. I do not see that young English girl as a criminal."

"Ah! Well," said Poirot, picking up the last passport. "To the final name on our list. Sybil Trelawney, the lady's-maid."

Summoned by the attendant, Sybil Trelawney came into the restaurant car and stood waiting respectfully. Her makeup and was as wild as before, and she this time wore large red spectacles, her eyes enlarged by them ridiculously.

Poirot motioned her to sit down.

She did so, folding her hands and waiting placidly till he questioned her. She seemed a placid creature altogether—eminently respectable, perhaps not very intelligent.

Poirot's methods with Trelawney were a complete contrast to his handling of Hermione Granger. He was at his kindest and most genial, setting the woman at her ease. Then, having got her to write down her name and address, he slid gently into his questions.

"We want to know as much as possible about what happened last night," he said. "We know that you cannot give us much information bearing on the crime itself, but you may have seen or heard something  
that, while conveying nothing to you, may be valuable to us. You understand?"

She did not seem to. Her kindly face remained set in its expression of placid elsewhereness as she answered: "But I do not know anything, Monsieur." 

"Well, for instance, you know that your mistress sent for you last night?"  
"That, yes."  
"Do you remember the time?"  
"I do not, Monsieur. I was asleep, you see, the conductor came and woke me."

"Yes, yes. Was it usual for you to be sent for in this way?"  
"It was not unusual, Monsieur. The gracious lady often required attention at night. She did not sleep well."  
"Eh bien, then, you received the summons and you got up. Did you put on a dressing-gown?"

"No, Monsieur, I put on a few clothes. I would not like to go in to her Excellency in my dressing-gown."  
"And yet it is a very nice dressing-gown—scarlet, is it not?"

She stared at him. 

"No, it is a dark blue flannel dressing-gown, Monsieur."  
"Ah! Continue. A little pleasantry on my part, that is all. So you went along to Madame la Princesse. And what did you do when you got there?"

"I gave her a massage, Monsieur, and then I read aloud. I do not read aloud very well, I can sound either too excited or too bored, but her Excellency says that this is all the better—so it sends her better to sleep. When she became sleepy, Monsieur, she told me to go, so I closed the book and I returned to my own compartment."

"Do you know what time that was?"  
"No, Monsieur."  
"Well, how long had you been with Madame la Princesse?"  
"About half an hour, Monsieur."

"Good, continue with your story." Poirot said, smiling gently. 

"First, I fetched her Excellency an extra blanket from our luggage in one of the seating cars. She was very cold in spite of the heating. I arranged the blanket over her, and she wished me good night. I poured her out some mineral water. Then I turned out the light and left her."

"And then?"  
"There is nothing more, Monsieur. I returned to my compartment and went to sleep."

"And you met no one in the corridors at any point?"  
"No, Monsieur."  
"You did not, for instance, see a lady in a scarlet kimono with dragons on it?"  
Her wild eyes bulged at him through her glasses. "No, indeed, Monsieur. There was nobody about except the staff person. All the passengers were asleep."

"So you did see someone, was it the conductor?"  
"Yes, Monsieur."  
"What was he doing?"  
"He came out of one of the toilets in the seating coach, Monsieur."

"What?" M. Bouc leaned forward.

Sybil Trelawney looked frightened again, and Poirot cast a reproachful glance at his friend.

"Naturally," he said. "The conductor often has to answer bells all night. He might need a break. Do you remember which way he went?"

"He went into the other sleeping car, Monsieur."

"Ah! tell us, if you please, exactly where this was and what happened?"  
"He nearly ran into me, Monsieur. It was when I was returning from the carriage to that of the Princess with the blanket."

"And he came out of a toilet and almost collided with you?"

"He apologised and passed on down the corridor towards the sleeper nearest the dining end of the train. A bell began ringing, but I do not think he answered it." She paused and then said: "I do not understand. How is it—"

Poirot spoke reassuringly, interrupting her nonetheless.

"It is just a question of time," he said. "All a matter of routine. This poor conductor, he seems to have had a busy night—first waking you and then answering bells."  
"It was not the same conductor who woke me, Monsieur. It was another one."  
"Ah! another one! Had you seen him before?"  
"No, Monsieur." 

"Ah!—do you think you would recognise him if you saw him?"  
"I think so, Monsieur."

Poirot murmured something in M. Bouc's ear. The latter got up and went to the door to give an order.

Poirot was continuing his questions in an easy, friendly manner.

"Have you ever been to America, Sybil?"  
"Never, Monsieur. It must be a fine country."  
"You have heard, perhaps, who this man who was killed really was—that he was responsible for the death of a little child?"  
"Yes, I have heard, Monsieur. It was abominable—wicked. The divines should not allow such things."

Tears had come into the woman's eyes. Her strong, bizarre, but maternal soul was moved.

"It was indeed an abominable crime," said Poirot gravely.

He drew a scrap of cambric from his pocket and handed it to her.

"Is this your handkerchief?" He asked, already knowing it was not. 

There was a moment's silence as the woman examined it. She looked up after a minute. The colour had mounted a little in her face.

"Ah! No, indeed. There are no initials of mine, Monsieur. Besides, it is a lady's handkerchief, that. A very expensive handkerchief. Embroidered by hand. It comes from Paris, I should say."

"It is not yours, so you do not know whose it is?"  
"Oh- Um- No, of course not Monsieur."

Of the three listening, only Poirot caught the possible significance of the hesitation in her reply.

M. Bouc whispered in his ear. Poirot nodded and said to the woman:

"The two sleeping-car attendants, the conductors are coming in. Will you be so kind as to tell me which is the one you met last night as you were going with the rug to the Princess?"

The two men entered. Pierre Michel, the big blond conductor of Poirot's coach, and the stout burly conductor of the other one, Sybil's own.

Sybil Trelawney looked at them and immediately shook her head. "No, Monsieur," she said. "None of these is the man I saw last night."

"But these are the only conductors on the train. You must be mistaken." Poirot replied. 

"I am quite sure, Monsieur. These are all tall, big men. The one I saw was small and dark. He had a little moustache. His voice when he said 'Pardon' was weak, like a woman's. Indeed, I remember him very well, Monsieur." 

"Thank you Sybil, you have been most useful, you may now go." Poirot said. 

The woman with wild hair, and makeup, and the large oversized spectacles rose, and left. 

The interviews were over, and Poirot was exhausted. But his mind pressed on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Roles Characters Fill:
> 
> Hercule Poirot - As Himself.
> 
> Dr. Constantine - As Himself.
> 
> The Conductor - As Himself.
> 
> M. Bouc. - As Himself.
> 
> Hermione Granger - As Mary Hermione Debenham.
> 
> Ron Weasley - As Colonel Arbuthnot.
> 
> William 'Bill' Weasley - As Count Andrenyi.
> 
> Fleur Delacour - As Countess Helena Maria Andrenyi (nee Goldenberg).
> 
> Molly Weasley - As Mrs. Hubbard/Linda Arden (Goldenberg).
> 
> Draco Malfoy - As Hector MacQueen.
> 
> Minerva McGonagall - As Princess Natalia Dragomiroff.
> 
> Sybil Trelawney - As Hildegarde Schmidt.
> 
> Luna Lovegood - As Greta Ohlsson.
> 
> Remus Lupin - As Cyrus Bethman Hardman.
> 
> Neville Longbottom - As Edward Henry Masterman.
> 
> Tom Riddle/Lord Voldemort - As Ratchett/Casetti: The Murder Victim.
> 
> Nymphadora Tonks - As the nursemaid, Susanne (DECEASED).
> 
> Harry Potter - As Colonel Armstrong (DECEASED).
> 
> Ginevra Potter - As Sonia Armstrong (DECEASED).
> 
> Lily Luna Potter - As Daisy Armstrong (DECEASED).


	21. Poirot Is Not A Magician

"A small dark man with a womanish voice," said M. Bouc.

The conductors and Trelawney had been dismissed. Only Poirot, Constantine, and Bouc remained. 

M. Bouc made a despairing gesture. "But I understand nothing—but nothing, of all of this! The enemy that this Riddle spoke of, he was then on the train after all? But where is he now? How can he have vanished into thin air? My head, it whirls. Say something, then, my friend, I implore you. Show me how the impossible can be possible!"

"It is a good phrase that," said Poirot. "The impossible cannot have happened, therefore the impossible must be possible in spite of appearances."

There was a pause, in that pause, Bouc grew impatient and had to speak. 

"Explain to me, then, quickly, what actually happened on the train last night!"

Poirot's eyes, despite his shorter height, seemed to look down on Bouc. 

Poirot spoke slowly, "I am not a magician, mon cher. I am, like you, a very puzzled man. This affair advances in a very strange manner."  
"It does not advance at all I say! It stays where it was." Bouc replied bitterly. 

Poirot shook his head. "No, that is not true. We are more advanced. We know certain things. We have heard the evidence of the passengers."  
"And what has that told us? Nothing at all."  
"I would not say that, my friend."

"I exaggerate, perhaps." Bouc began. "The Lupin, and the maid—yes, they have added something to our knowledge. That is to say, they have made the whole business more unintelligible than it was."  
"No, no, no," said Poirot soothingly.

M. Bouc turned upon him dramatically. "Speak, then, let us hear the 'great wisdom' of Hercule Poirot."

"Did I not tell you that I was, like you, a very puzzled man? But at least we can face our problem. We can arrange such facts as we have with order and method."

"Pray continue, Monsieur," said Dr. Constantine, intrigued by Poirot, but annoyed by Bouc.

Poirot cleared his throat and straightened a piece of paper, from which he read.

"Let us review the case as it stands at this moment. First, there are certain indisputable facts. This man, Riddle or Voldemort, was stabbed in twelve places and died last night. That is fact one."

"I grant it you—I grant it, mon vieux," said M. Bouc with a gesture of irony.

Hercule Poirot was not at all put out. He continued calmly.

"I will pass over for the moment certain rather peculiar appearances which Dr. Constantine and I have already discussed together. I will come to them presently. The next fact of importance, to my mind, is the time of the crime."

"That, again, is one of the few things we do know," said M. Bouc. "The crime was committed at a quarter past one this morning. Everything goes to show that that was so."

"Not everything. You exaggerate. There is, certainly, a fair amount of evidence to support that view." Poirot said.  
"I am glad you admit that at least." Bouc replied.

Poirot went on calmly, unperturbed by the interruption. "We have before us three possibilities."

"(1)—that the crime was committed, as you say, at a quarter past one. This is supported by the evidence of the watch, by the evidence of Mrs. Hubbard, and by the evidence of the maid, Sybil Trelawney. It agrees with the evidence of Dr. Constantine."

"(2)—that the crime was committed later, and that the evidence of the watch was deliberately faked in order to mislead."

"(3)—that the crime was committed earlier, and the evidence faked for the same reason as above."

Bouc and Constantine nodded at all of these statements.

"Now if we accept possibility (1) as the most likely to have occurred, and the one supported by most evidence, we must also accept certain facts arising from it. If the crime was committed at a quarter past one, the murderer cannot have left the train, and the questions arise: Where is he? And who is he?"

"To begin with, let us examine the evidence carefully. We first hear of the existence of this man—the small dark man with a womanish voice—from the man Lupin. He says that Riddle told him of this person and employed him to watch out for the man. There is no evidence to support this; we have only Riddle's word for it, and a letter, which is easily fake-able. Let us next examine the question: Is Lupin the person he pretends to be- an operative of The Order?"

Poirot paused, he was ever so slightly enjoying the attention on him as he performed his monologue. 

"What to my mind is so interesting in this case is that we have none of the facilities afforded to the police. We cannot investigate the bona-fides of any of these people. We have to rely solely on deduction. That, to me, makes the matter very much more interesting. There is no routine work. It is all a matter of the intellect. I ask myself: Can we accept Lupin's account of himself? I make my decision and I answer 'Yes.' I am of the opinion that we can accept his account of himself."

"You rely on the intuition? What the Americans call 'the hunch'?" asked Dr. Constantine.

Poirot gave a smile. The type a parent gives a child when they are failing to understand something.

"Not at all. I regard the probabilities. Lupin is travelling with a false Identity Card—that will at once make him an object of suspicion. The confectionery job of his on there would easily be disproved. The first thing that the police will do when they do arrive upon the scene is to detain everyone, including Lupin and check as to whether his account of himself is true. In the case of many of the passengers, to establish their bona-fides will be difficult; in most cases it will probably not be attempted, especially since there seems nothing in the way of suspicion attaching to them. But in Lupin's case it is simple. Either he is the person he  
represents himself to be, or he is not. Therefore I say that his second identity- the one of an operative- at least, will prove to be in order."

"So, you acquit him of suspicion?" Constantine asked. 

"Not at all. You misunderstand me. For all I know, any operative might have his own private reasons for wishing to murder Riddle. No, what I am saying is that I think we can accept Lupin's own account of himself. This story, though, that he tells of Riddle's seeking him out and employing him is not unlikely, and is most probably—though not of course certainly—true. If we are going to accept it as true, we must see if there is any confirmation of it. We find it in rather an unlikely place—in the evidence of Sybil Trelawney."

"How is that?" Bouc queried assertively. 

"Her description of the man she saw in Wagon Lit uniform tallies exactly to the one of the man after Riddle in Lupin's case. Is there any further confirmation of these two stories? There is. There is the button that Mrs. Hubbard found in her compartment."

"Therefore this story, the story of a small dark man with a womanish voice dressed in Wagon Lit uniform, rests on the testimony, direct or indirect, of two witnesses."

"One small point," said Dr. Constantine. "If Sybil Trelawney's story is true, how is it that the conductors did not mention having seen her, for example when Michel went to answer Mrs. Hubbard's bell?"

"That is explained, I think. When he went to answer Mrs. Hubbard, the maid was in with her mistress. When she finally returned to her own compartment, it was through the adjoining door. Let us say that at the moment of the only time she used to the corridor, which was to get the blanket, Michel was attending to Mrs. Hubbard, and the other conductor, who woke her, was in his post, not suspicious of the maid he'd awoken"

M. Bouc had been waiting with difficulty until they had finished.

"Yes, yes, my friend," he said impatiently to Poirot. "But whilst I admire your caution, your method of advancing a step at a time, I submit that you have not yet touched the point at issue. We are all agreed that this person exists. The point is, where did he go?"

Poirot shook his head reprovingly.

"You are in error. You are inclined to put the cart before the horse. Before I ask myself, 'Where did this man vanish to?' I ask myself, 'Did such a man really exist?' Because, you see, if the man were an invention—a fabrication—how much easier to make him disappear! So I try to establish first that there really is such a flesh-and-blood person." 

"And having arrived at the fact that there is—eh bien, where is he now?" Bouc asked.

"There are only two answers to that, mon cher. Either he is still hidden on the train in a place of such extraordinary ingenuity that we cannot even think of it; or else he is, as one might say, two persons. That is, he is both himself—the man feared by Riddle—and a passenger on the train so well disguised that Riddle did not recognise him before he was murdered."

"It is an idea, that," said M. Bouc, his face lighting up. Then it clouded over again. "But there is one objection—"

Poirot took the words out of his mouth. "The height of the man. It is that you would say? With the exception of Mr. Riddle's valet, all the passengers are tall men. But there is another possibility. Remember the 'womanish' voice. That gives us a choice of alternatives. The man may be disguised as a woman, or, alternatively, he may actually be a woman! A tallish woman dressed in men's clothes would look small."

"But surely Riddle would have known—" Bouc said, before being interrupted.

"Perhaps he did know. Perhaps, already, this woman had attempted his life, wearing a male's clothes the better to accomplish her purpose. Riddle may have guessed that she would use the same trick again, so he tells Lupin to look for a man. But he mentions, however, a womanish voice."

"It is a possibility," said M. Bouc. "But—"

"Listen, my friend, I think that I should now tell you of certain inconsistencies noticed by Dr. Constantine."

Poirot retailed at length the conclusions that he and the doctor had arrived at together from the nature of the dead man's wounds. 

M. Bouc groaned and held his head. 

"I know," said Poirot sympathetically. "I know exactly how you feel. The head spins, does it not?"

"The whole thing is a fantasy!" cried M. Bouc.

"Exactly. It is absurd—improbable—it cannot be. So I myself have said. And yet, my friend, there it is! One cannot escape from the facts."

"It is madness!" Bouc cried once again. 

"Is it not? It is so mad, my friend, that sometimes I am haunted by the sensation that really it must be very simple. ... But that is only one of my 'little ideas'!"

"Two murderers," groaned M. Bouc. "And on the Hogwarts Express—" The thought almost made him weep.

"And now let us make the fantasy more fantastic," said Poirot cheerfully. "Last night on the train, there are two mysterious strangers. There is the Wagon Lit attendant answering to the description given us by Lupin, and seen by Sybil Trelawney. There is also a woman in a red kimono—a tall slim woman, seen by Pierre Michel, Miss Granger, Mr. Malfoy, and myself. Oh- and smelt, I may say, by Colonel Weasley." 

He paused in concentration. And then continued.

"Who was she? No one on the train admits to having a scarlet kimono. So, she, too, has vanished. Was she one and the same with the false Wagon Lit Conductor? Or was she some quite distinct personality? Where are they, these two? And incidentally, where are the Wagon Lit uniform and the scarlet kimono?"

"Ah! that is something definite." M. Bouc sprang up eagerly. "We must search all the passengers' luggage. Yes, that will be something."

Poirot rose also. "I will make a prophecy," he said.

"You know where they are?" Constantine asked.  
"I have a little idea, my friends."

"Where, then?" Bouc's brow furrowed as he said this. 

"You will find the scarlet kimono in the baggage of one of the men, and you will find the uniform of the Wagon Lit conductor in the baggage of Sybil Trelawney."  
"Sybil Trelawney? You think—"  
"Not what you are thinking. I will put it like this. If she is guilty, the uniform may be found in her baggage. But if she is innocent, it certainly will be."

"But how—" began M. Bouc and stopped. "What is this noise that approaches?" he cried. "It resembles a locomotive in motion, are we all saved?" 

The noise drew nearer. It consisted of shrill cries and protests in a woman's voice. The door at the end of the dining-car burst open. Mrs. Molly Hubbard burst in.

"It's too horrible!" she cried. "It's just too horrible. In my sponge-bag. My sponge-bag! A great knife—all over- blood!"

And suddenly toppling forward, she fainted heavily on M. Bouc's shoulder.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Roles Characters Fill:
> 
> Hercule Poirot - As Himself.
> 
> Dr. Constantine - As Himself.
> 
> The Conductor - As Himself.
> 
> M. Bouc. - As Himself.
> 
> Hermione Granger - As Mary Hermione Debenham.
> 
> Ron Weasley - As Colonel Arbuthnot.
> 
> William 'Bill' Weasley - As Count Andrenyi.
> 
> Fleur Delacour - As Countess Helena Maria Andrenyi (nee Goldenberg).
> 
> Molly Weasley - As Mrs. Hubbard/Linda Arden (Goldenberg).
> 
> Draco Malfoy - As Hector MacQueen.
> 
> Minerva McGonagall - As Princess Natalia Dragomiroff.
> 
> Sybil Trelawney - As Hildegarde Schmidt.
> 
> Luna Lovegood - As Greta Ohlsson.
> 
> Remus Lupin - As Cyrus Bethman Hardman.
> 
> Neville Longbottom - As Edward Henry Masterman.
> 
> Tom Riddle/Lord Voldemort - As Ratchett/Casetti: The Murder Victim.
> 
> Nymphadora Tonks - As the nursemaid, Susanne (DECEASED).
> 
> Harry Potter - As Colonel Armstrong (DECEASED).
> 
> Ginevra Potter - As Sonia Armstrong (DECEASED).
> 
> Lily Luna Potter - As Daisy Armstrong (DECEASED).


	22. The Murder Weapon

With more vigour than chivalry, Bouc deposited the fainting lady with her head on the table. 

Dr. Constantine yelled for one of the restaurant attendants, who came at a run.

"Keep her head so," said the doctor. "If she revives give her a little cognac. You understand?"

Then he hurried off after the other two. His interest lay wholly in the crime—swooning middle-aged ladies did not interest him at all.

It is possible that Mrs. Hubbard revived rather more quickly by these methods than she might otherwise have done. A few minutes later she was sitting up, gulping cognac from a glass proffered by the attendant, and talking once more.

"I just can't tell you how terrible it was! I don't suppose anybody on this train can understand my feelings. I've always been very, very sensitive ever since I was a child. The mere sight of blood—ugh! Why, even now I get faint when I think about it!"

The attendant proffered the glass again. "Encore un peu, Madame?"

"D'you think I'd better? I'm a lifelong teetotaller. I never touch spirits or wine at any time. All my family are abstainers. Still, perhaps as this is only medicinal—"

She drank once more, without any hesitation.

In the meantime Poirot and M. Bouc, closely followed by Dr. Constantine, had hurried out of the restaurant car and along the corridor of the nearest sleeping coach, towards Mrs. Hubbard's compartment.

Every traveller on the train seemed to be congregated outside the door. The conductor, Pierre Michel, a harassed look on his face, was keeping them back.

"Mais il n'y a rien à voir," he said, and repeated the sentiment in several other languages, namely English. "There is nothing to see!". 

"Let me pass if you please," said M. Bouc sharply.

Squeezing his rotundity past the obstructing passengers he entered the compartment, Poirot close behind him.

"I am glad you three have come, Monsieur," said the conductor with a sigh of relief. "Everyone has been trying to enter. The American lady—such screams as she gave—ma foi, I thought she too had been murdered! I came at a run, and there she was screaming like a mad woman; and she cried out that she must fetch you, and she departed screeching at the top of her voice and telling everybody whose compartment she passed what had occurred."

He added, with a gesture of the hand: "It is in there, Monsieur! I have not touched it."

Within Molly's compartment, hanging on the handle of the door that gave access to the adjoining one was a large-checked rubber sponge-bag. Below it on the floor, just where it had fallen from Mrs. Hubbard's hand, was a straight-bladed dagger—a cheap affair, sham Oriental with a fake crystal embossed hilt and a tapering blade. The blade was stained with patches of what looked like rust.

Poirot picked it up delicately.

"Yes," he murmured. "There is no mistake. Here is our missing weapon all right—eh, doctor?"

The doctor examined it very delicately.

"You need not be so careful," said Poirot. "There will be no fingerprints on it, save those of Mrs. Hubbard." 

Constantine's examination did not take long. "It is the weapon all right," he said. "It would account for any of the wounds."

"I implore you, my friend, do not say that!" Poirot exclaimed. 

The doctor looked astonished at the man's sudden lack of composure.

Poirot continued. "Already we are heavily overburdened by coincidence. Two people decided to stab Mr. Riddle last night. It is too much of a good thing that both of them should select the same weapon!"

"As, to that, the coincidence is not perhaps so great as it seems," said the doctor. "Thousands of these sham Eastern daggers are made and shipped to the markets of the world."

"You console me a little, but only a little," said Poirot.

He looked thoughtfully at the door in front of him, then, lifting off the sponge-bag, he tried the handle. The door did not budge. About a foot above the handle, clearly visible, was the door lock. Poirot drew it back and tried again, but still the door remained fast.

"We locked it from the other side, you remember," said the doctor.  
"That is true," said Poirot absently. He seemed to be thinking about something else. His brow was furrowed as though in perplexity.

"It agrees, does it not?" said M. Bouc. "The man passes through this carriage. As he shuts the communicating door behind him he feels the sponge-bag. A thought comes to him and he quickly slips the bloodstained knife inside. Then, all unwitting that he has awakened Mrs. Hubbard, he slips out through the other door into the corridor."

"As you say," murmured Poirot. "That is how it must have happened." But the puzzled look did not leave his face.

"But what is it?" demanded M. Bouc. "There is something, is there not, that does not satisfy you?"

Poirot darted a quick took at him.

"The same point does not strike you? No, evidently not. Well, it is a small matter."

The conductor looked into the compartment. "The American lady is coming back."

Dr. Constantine looked rather guilty. He had, he felt, treated Mrs. Hubbard rather cavalierly. But she had no reproaches for him. Her energies were concentrated on another matter.

"I'm going to say one thing right out," she said breathlessly as she arrived in the doorway. "I'm not going on any longer in this compartment! Why, I wouldn't sleep in it to-night if you paid me a million galleons!"

"But, Madame—" Poirot tried to say.

"I know what you are going to say, and I'm telling you right now that I won't do any such thing! Why, I'd rather sit up all night in the corridor." She began to cry. "Oh, if my daughter could only know—if she could see me now, why—"

Poirot interrupted firmly. 

"You misunderstand, Madame. Your demand is most reasonable. Your baggage shall be changed at once to another compartment."

Mrs. Hubbard lowered her handkerchief. The one with the initials MW. "Is that so? Oh! I feel better right away. But surely it's all full—"

M. Bouc spoke. "Your baggage, Madame, shall be moved out of this coach altogether. You shall have a compartment in the other sleeper coach, which was put on at York."

"Why, that's splendid. I'm not an extra nervous woman, but to sleep in that compartment next door to a dead man!" She shivered. "It would drive me plumb crazy."

"Michel," called M. Bouc. "Move this baggage into a vacant compartment in the York-Scotland coach."  
"Yes, Monsieur. One with a layout the same as this—the No. 15?"

"No," said Poirot before his friend could reply. "I think it would be better for Madame to have a different arrangement altogether. The No. 12, for instance."  
"Bien, Monsieur." The conductor seized the luggage. 

Mrs. Hubbard turned gratefully to Poirot. "That's very kind and delicate of you. I appreciate it, I assure you."  
"Do not mention it, Madame. We will come with you and see you comfortably installed."

Mrs. Hubbard was escorted by the three men through the seating carriages, and to her new home. She looked round happily at her new compartment. 

"This is just fine."  
"It suits you, Madame? It is, you see, exactly like the compartment you have left."

She pulled a face, paused, and then spoke.

"That's so—only, well, it faces the other way. But that doesn't matter, for these trains go first one way and then the other. I said to my daughter, 'I want a compartment facing the direction of travel.' and she said, 'Why, Mamma, that'll be no good to you, for if you go to sleep one way, when you wake up, the train's going the other!' And it was quite true what she said. Why, last evening we went into Edinburgh one way and out the other!"

"At any rate, Madame Hubbard, you are quite happy and contented now?"  
"Well, no, I wouldn't say that. Here we are stuck in a snowdrift, and there's nobody doing anything about it, and my boat sailing to America in just a few days!"

"Madame," said M. Bouc, "we are all in the same case—every one of us."

She paused again.

"Well, that's true," admitted Mrs. Hubbard. "But nobody else has had a murderer walking right through her compartment in the middle of the night!"

Poirot nodded at her sympathetically, and then spoke. "What still puzzles me, Madame, is how the man got into your compartment if the communicating door was bolted as you say. You are sure that it was bolted?"  
"Why, Miss Lovegood- the quiet lady- she tried it right before my eyes." Molly replied. 

"Let us just reconstruct that little scene. You were lying in your bunk—so—and you could not see for yourself, you say?"  
"No, because of the sponge-bag. Oh! My, I shall have to get a new sponge-bag. It makes me feel sick at my stomach to look at this one."

Poirot picked up the sponge-bag and hung it on the handle of the communicating door into the next carriage.

"Précisément. I see," he said. "The bolt is just underneath the handle here—the sponge-bag masks it. You could not see from where you were lying whether the bolt was turned or not."

"Why, that's just what I've been telling you!" Mrs. Hubbard shrieked.  
"And the sheep-like lady, Miss Lovegood, stood so, between you and the door. She tried it and told you it was bolted."  
"That's so." Molly nodded. 

"All the same, Madame, she may have made an error. You see what I mean." Poirot seemed anxious to explain. "The bolt is just a projection of metal—so. When it is turned to the right, the door is locked. When it is left straight, the door is unlocked. Possibly she merely tried the door, and as it was locked on the other side she may have assumed that it was locked on your side."

"Well, I guess that would be rather stupid of her." Mrs. Hubbard said after a pause.  
"Madame, the most kind and intelligent, even the most observant, are not always aware of everything."  
"That's so, of course." 

"By the way, Madame, did you travel out on this train before in anyway, or, perhaps the Belmond, or the Orient Express?"  
"No. I sailed right to the Continent from America, and a friend of my daughter's, Mr. Wood (a perfectly lovely man, I'd like to have you know him), met me and showed me all round Europe. But it is a very disappointing place, never as cosmopolitan as where I'm from— now, where was I?"

"You were saying that Mr. Wood met you?" Poirot replied, somewhat absently.

"That's so, and he saw me onto a French Liner for Istanbul. Oh! Mercy! The East, their cities—all tumbling down; and as for those mosques, and putting on those great shuffling things over your shoes. Now, what my daughter would say if she heard about all this! My daughter said this would be just the safest, easiest way imaginable. 'You just sit in your carriage,' she said, 'and you land right in Scot-er-land, for a little detour, and there then the American Express will meet you.' And, oh, dear, what am I to do about cancelling my steamship passage? I ought to let them know. I can't possibly make it now. This is just too terrible—"

Mrs. Hubbard showed signs of tears once more.

Poirot, who had been fidgeting slightly, seized his opportunity to leave her.

"You have had a shock, Madame. The restaurant attendant shall be instructed to bring you along some tea and some biscuits."  
"I don't know that I'm so set on tea," said Mrs. Hubbard tearfully. "That's more an English habit."

"Some coffee, then, Madame. You need some stimulant—"  
"That cognac's made my head feel mighty funny. I think I would like some coffee."  
"Excellent. You must revive your forces."  
"My, what a funny expression!" The woman replied. 

"But first, Madame, a little matter of routine. You permit that I make a search of your baggage!"  
"Why? What on Earth for?"  
"We are about to commence a search of all the passengers' luggage. I do not want to remind you of an unpleasant experience, but your sponge-bag—remember?"  
"Mercy! Perhaps you'd better! I just couldn't bear to get any more surprises of that kind."

The examination was quickly over. Mrs. Hubbard was travelling with the minimum of luggage—a hat-box, a cheap suitcase, and a well-burdened travelling bag. The contents of all three were mostly simple and straightforward.

The examination would not have taken more than a couple of minutes had not Mrs. Hubbard delayed matters by insisting on due attention being paid to photographs of "my daughter" and of two rather plain looking children—"my daughter's children. Aren't they cunning?"

Poirot noted that these pictures were not the ones he had seen her remove from her bag during their interview. The people in those had resembled her at least somewhat. These did not.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Roles Characters Fill:
> 
> Hercule Poirot - As Himself.
> 
> Dr. Constantine - As Himself.
> 
> The Conductor - As Himself.
> 
> M. Bouc. - As Himself.
> 
> Hermione Granger - As Mary Hermione Debenham.
> 
> Ron Weasley - As Colonel Arbuthnot.
> 
> William 'Bill' Weasley - As Count Andrenyi.
> 
> Fleur Delacour - As Countess Helena Maria Andrenyi (nee Goldenberg).
> 
> Molly Weasley - As Mrs. Hubbard/Linda Arden (Goldenberg).
> 
> Draco Malfoy - As Hector MacQueen.
> 
> Minerva McGonagall - As Princess Natalia Dragomiroff.
> 
> Sybil Trelawney - As Hildegarde Schmidt.
> 
> Luna Lovegood - As Greta Ohlsson.
> 
> Remus Lupin - As Cyrus Bethman Hardman.
> 
> Neville Longbottom - As Edward Henry Masterman.
> 
> Tom Riddle/Lord Voldemort - As Ratchett/Casetti: The Murder Victim.
> 
> Nymphadora Tonks - As the nursemaid, Susanne (DECEASED).
> 
> Harry Potter - As Colonel Armstrong (DECEASED).
> 
> Ginevra Potter - As Sonia Armstrong (DECEASED).
> 
> Lily Luna Potter - As Daisy Armstrong (DECEASED).


	23. Searching The Luggage

Having delivered himself of various polite insincerities, and having told Mrs. Hubbard that he would order coffee to be brought to her, Poirot was able to take his leave accompanied by his two friends.

"Well, we have made a start and drawn, a blank," observed M. Bouc.  
"Whom shall we attack next?"  
"It would be simplest, I think, just to proceed along the train, compartment by compartment. We should make our way back to the London-Scotland coach, and start from the very first compartment, that means that we start with compartment 8— that of Miss Granger, and Miss Lovegood."

When they knocked on the open door of the compartment of Hermione Granger, she was reading a book, Luna Lovegood, who was fast asleep, woke with a start at their entrance.

The sheep-like lady seemed agitated, Hermione meanwhile, was calmly indifferent. 

Poirot first addressed himself to Luna Lovegood.

"If you permit, Mademoiselle, we will examine your baggage first, and then perhaps you would be so good as to see how the American lady is getting on. We have moved her into one of the compartments in the  
other sleeping coach, but she is still very much upset as the result of her discovery. I have ordered coffee to be sent to her, but I think she is of those to whom someone to talk to is a necessity of the first order."

The good lady was instantly sympathetic. She would go immediately. It must have been indeed a terrible shock to the nerves, and already the poor lady was upset by the journey and leaving her daughter. Ah, yes, certainly she would go at once—her case was not locked—and she would take with her some sal ammoniac. 

Luna bustled off. Her possessions were soon examined. They were meagre in the extreme. She had evidently not yet noticed the missing wires from the hat-box.

Hermione had put her book down. She was watching Poirot.

When he asked her, she handed over her keys. Then, as he lifted down one of her cases and opened it, she said:

"Why did you send Luna away, Monsieur Poirot?"  
"I, Mademoiselle? Why, to minister to the American lady."  
"An excellent pretext—but a pretext all the same."  
"I don't understand you, Mademoiselle."

"I think you understand me very well." She smiled. "You wanted to get me alone. Wasn't that it?"  
"You are putting words into my mouth, Mademoiselle."  
"And ideas into your head? No, I don't think so. The ideas are already there. That is right, isn't it?"  
"Mademoiselle, we have a proverb—"

"Qui s'excuse s'accuse—is that what you were going to say? You must give me the credit for a certain amount of observation and common sense. For some reason or other you have got it into your head that I know something about this sordid business—this murder of a man I never saw before."

Poirot paused, and smiled, a bright smile that would sedate even the most stubborn of people.

"You are imagining things, Mademoiselle."  
"No, I am not imagining things at all." Hermione snapped. "But it seems to me that a lot of time is wasted by not speaking the truth—by beating about the bush instead of coming straight out with things."

Poirot's smile still existed, but the nature of it changed, it was now matched by eyes that looked into Hermione's soul.

"Oh! So, you do not like the waste of time. No, you like to come straight to the point. You like the direct method. Eh bien, I will give it to you, the direct method. I will ask you the meaning of certain words that I overheard on the journey from London. I had got out of the train to do what the English call 'stretch the legs' at the station of Newcastle. Your voice and the Colonel's, Mademoiselle, they came to me out of the night. You said to him, 'Not now. Not now. When it's all over. When it's behind us.' What did you mean by those words, Mademoiselle?"

Poirot had silenced the girl. And a fair amount of time passed before she answered. 

She then asked very quietly, "Do you think I meant—murder?"  
"It is I who am asking you, Mademoiselle!"

She sighed—was lost a minute in thought. Then, as though rousing herself, she said:

"Those words had a meaning, Monsieur, but not one that I can tell you. I can only give you my solemn word of honour that I had never set eyes on this man Riddle in my life until I saw him on this train."  
"And—you refuse to explain those words?"  
"Yes, if you like to put it that way—I refuse. They had to do with— with a task I had undertaken."

"A task that is now ended Mademoiselle?"  
"What do you mean?"  
"It is ended, is it not?"  
"Why should you think so?"

"Listen, Mademoiselle Granger, I will recall to you another incident. There was a delay to on the day we were to reach York. You were agitated. You! So calm, so self-controlled. You lost that calm!"  
"I did not want people to miss their connection." Hermione replied, asserting herself haughtily. 

"So you said. But, Mademoiselle, a train for the Hogwarts Express leaves London every day of the week. Even if they had missed the connection it would only have been a matter of twenty-four hours' delay."

Hermione Jean Debenham Granger for the first time showed signs of completely losing her temper.

"You do not seem to realise that one may have friends awaiting one's arrival, and that a day's delay upsets arrangements and causes a lot of annoyance!"  
"Ah, it is like that? There are people awaiting your's or another's arrival? You do not want to cause them inconvenience?"  
"Naturally." Hermione said, angered face softening as she remembered the situation. 

Poirot paused again, his eyes not leaving Hermione's. 

"And yet—it is curious—"  
"What is curious?" Hermione asked coolly.  
"On this train—again we have a delay. And this time a more serious delay, since there is no possibility of sending a telegram to your friends or of getting them on the long—the long—"  
"Long distance? The telephone, you mean." Hermione said politely.  
"Ah, yes, the portmanteau call, as you say in England."

Hermione smiled a little in spite of herself. 

"Trunk call," she corrected. "Yes, as you say Poirot, it is extremely annoying not to be able to get any word through, either by telephone or by telegraph."  
"And yet, Mademoiselle, this time your manner is quite different? You no longer betray the impatience. You are calm and philosophical."

Hermione flushed and bit her lip. She no longer felt inclined to smile.

"You do not answer, Mademoiselle?" Poirot pressed.  
"I am sorry. I did not know that there was anything to answer."  
"Your change of attitude, Mademoiselle."  
"Don't you think that you are making rather a fuss about nothing, Poirot?"

Poirot spread out his hands in an apologetic gesture. "It is perhaps a fault with us detectives. We expect the behaviour to be always consistent. We do not allow for changes of mood."

Hermione Granger made no reply.

"You know Colonel Weasley well, Mademoiselle?"

Poirot fancied that she was relieved by the change of subject.

"I met him for the first time on this journey."  
"Have you any reason to suspect that he may have known this man Riddle?"

She shook her head decisively. "I am quite sure he didn't."

"Why are you sure?"  
"By the way he spoke."  
"And yet, Mademoiselle, we found a pipe-cleaner on the floor of the dead man's compartment. And Colonel Weasley is the only man on the train who smokes a pipe."

Poirot watched her narrowly this time, but she displayed neither surprise nor emotion, merely said:

"Nonsense. It's absurd. Colonel Ronald Weasley is the last man in the world to be mixed up in a crime—especially a theatrical kind of crime like this."

It was so much what Poirot himself thought that he found himself on the point of agreeing with her. 

He said instead: "I must remind you that you supposedly do not know him very well, Mademoiselle."  
She shrugged her shoulders, but her eye flinched a little. "I know the type well enough."

Poirot's manner changed, and he said very gently: "You still refuse to tell me the meaning of those words: 'When it's behind us'?"

Hermione replied extremely coldly, "I have nothing more to say."

"It does not matter," said Hercule Poirot. "I shall find out."

He bowed and left the compartment, closing the door after him.

"Was that wise, my friend?" asked M. Bouc. "You have put her on her guard—and through her, you will put the Colonel on his guard also."

Poirot replied simply: "Mon ami, if you wish to catch a deer you shoot its leg and follow the blood. That is all I have done."

The doors of the next two compartments were tightly shut. M. Bouc paused and scratched his head.

"Diable!" he said. "This may be awkward. These are diplomatic passports. Their luggage is legally exempt."  
"From customs examination, yes. But a murder is different." Poirot replied sternly. 

"I know. All the same—we do not want to have complications."  
"Do not distress yourself, my friend. The Count and Countess will be reasonable."

M. Bouc did not give up so easily. "The Count impressed me as a man of somewhat truculent disposition. He was not pleased when you insisted on questioning his wife. And this will annoy him still further. Suppose—eh?—we omit them. After all, they can have nothing to do with the matter. Why should I stir up needless trouble for myself?"

"I do not agree with you," said Poirot. "I feel sure that Count Delacour will be reasonable. At any rate let us make the attempt."

And before M. Bouc could reply, Poirot rapped sharply on the first door of the adjoining compartments. 

A voice from within cried "Entrez!"

The Count was sitting in the corner near the door reading a newspaper. The Countess was curled up in the opposite corner near the window. There was a pillow behind her head and she seemed to have been asleep.

"Pardon, Monsieur le Count," began Poirot. "pray forgive this intrusion. It is that we are making a search of all the baggage on the train. In most cases a mere formality. But it has to be done. M. Bouc suggests that, as you both have a diplomatic passport, you might reasonably claim to be exempt from such a search."

Count Delacour considered for a moment.

"Thank you," he said. "But I do not think that I care to have an exception made in my case. I should prefer that our baggage should be examined like that of the other passengers."

He turned to his wife. "You do not object, I hope, my dear Fleur?"

"Not at all," said the Countess without hesitation.

A rapid and somewhat perfunctory search followed. Poirot seemed to be trying to mask an embarrassment by making various small pointless remarks, such as:

"Here is a label all wet on your suitcase, Monsieur," as he lifted down a blue morocco leather case with initials on it and above them a coronet, the former was covered by the label.

The Count and Countess did not reply to this observation. They seemed, indeed, rather bored by the whole proceeding, she remained curled up in her corner, staring dreamily out through the window whilst the men searched her luggage in the compartment next door, and he continued with his newspaper.

Poirot finished his search by opening the little cupboard above the washbasin in the Countess's compartment, and taking a rapid glance at its contents: a sponge, face cream, powder, and a small bottle labelled "Trional- 'The Sleeping Draught to be taken at bedtime'".

Then with polite remarks on either side, the search party withdrew.

The next compartment was that of Colonel Weasley's, his door was pulled closed, but not clicked into place.

Weasley was sitting in a corner smoking a pipe and reading a magazine. Poirot explained their errand.  
The Colonel made no demur. He had two heavy leather suitcases.

"The rest of my kit has gone by long sea," The Colonel explained.

Like most Army or Ministry men the Colonel was a fairly neat packer. The examination of his baggage took only a few minutes. 

Poirot noted a large packet of pipe-cleaners.

"You always use the same kind?" Poirot asked.  
"Usually. If I can get 'em." Colonel Weasley replied.  
"Ah!" Poirot nodded. 

The pipe-cleaners corresponded exactly with the one he had found on the floor of the dead man's compartment.

Dr. Constantine remarked as much when they were out in the corridor again.

"Tout de même," murmured Poirot, "I can hardly believe it. It is not dans son caractère, and when you have said that, you have said everything."

Draco Malfoy acquiesced willingly in the search, he'd been sitting in his compartment with the door wide open. 

"I'd be glad if you did," Draco said with a rueful smile. "I feel I'm definitely the most suspicious character on the train. You've only got to find a will in which the old man left me all his money, and that'll just about fix things. I hope my luggage will prove my innocence!"

M. Bouc bent a suspicious glance upon Mr. Malfoy.

"That's only my fun," added Malfoy hastily. "He'd never have left me a knut, really. I was just useful to him—languages and so on. You're likely to be out of luck, you know, if you don't speak anything but good American when travelling through Europe or The East. I'm no linguist myself, but I know what I call Shopping and Hotel—snappy bits in French, German, and Italian."

Draco's voice was a little louder than usual. It was as though he were slightly uneasy over the search in spite of his expressed willingness.

Poirot emerged. "Nothing," he said. "Not even a compromising bequest!"  
Malfoy sighed. "Well, that's a load off my mind," he said humorously.

Mrs. Hubbard's former compartment, that of the dead man, and Poirot's own came next. So they were skipped in favour of the other sleeping coach.

First was Mr. Lupin and Mr. Longbottom's shared compartment. It was laid out the same as Hermione and Luna's.  
The examination of the man with the tan suits, and of the valet, yielded no results.

Lupin and Poirot however, did make polite conversation. 

"Me, I would much like to go to America one day," said Poirot.  
"You'd learn a few go-ahead methods over there," said Lupin.  
"It is true that America is the country of progress," agreed Poirot.

"There is much that I admire about Americans" Poirot began, "Only, I find the American women less charming than my own countrywomen. The French or the Belgian girl, coquettish, charming—I think there is no one to touch her."

Lupin turned away to peer out at the snow for a minute, Neville Longbottom, as well as Poirot, eyed him curiously.

"Perhaps you're right, Mr. Poirot," he said. "But I guess every country likes its own ladies best." 

Lupin blinked as though the snow hurt his eyes. He was thinking of a woman named Nymphadora Tonks. 

The next compartment, 15, had Mrs. Hubbard in, as they passed by it, the three men saw Luna and Molly talking animatedly.  
14 was empty, 13 belonged to the doctor, whilst 12 was also empty, so these three compartments were skipped as well, 

The door of the next compartment, 11, was closed. It was that occupied by Princess McGonagall-Dragomiroff. They knocked on the door and the Princess's autocratic voice called "Come in!"

M. Bouc was spokesman. He was very deferential and polite as he explained their errand.

The Princess listened to him in silence, her small cat-like face quite impassive.

"If it is necessary, Messieurs." The Princess said quietly when he had finished, "That is all there is to it. My maid has the keys. She will attend to it with you."

"Does your maid always carry your keys, Madame?" asked Poirot.  
"Certainly, Monsieur."

"And if, during the night, on the continent, the customs officials should require a piece of luggage to be opened?"

The old lady shrugged her shoulders. "It is very unlikely. But in such a case, the conductor would fetch her."  
"You trust her, then, implicitly, Madame?"  
"I have told you so already," said the Princess quietly. "I do not employ people whom I do not trust."

"Yes," said Poirot thoughtfully. "Trust is indeed something in these days. It is perhaps better to have a homely woman whom one can trust than a more chic maid—for example, some smart Parisienne."

Poirot saw the intelligent eyes of McGonagall come slowly round and fasten themselves upon his face. 

"What exactly are you implying, M. Poirot?"  
"Nothing, Madame. Nothing."  
"But yes. You think, do you not, that I should have a smart Frenchwoman to attend to myself?"

"It would be perhaps more usual, Madame."  
The woman shook her head. "Sybil is devoted to me." Her voice dwelt lingeringly on the words. "Devotion—c'est impayable."

Sybil Trelawney then arrived with the keys. The Princess spoke to her in slow English, telling her to open all of the trunks, cases, and valises, and help the gentlemen in their search. 

After a prompt search of McGonagall-Dragomiroff's compartment, they moved on to her extra luggage. The Princess herself remained in the corridor looking out at the snow, and Poirot remained with her, leaving Bouc, Constantine, and a conductor, to the task of searching the Princess's vast amount of luggage stored in one of the seating coaches.

The Princess regarded Poirot with a grim smile.

"Well, Monsieur Poirot, do you not wish to see what my valises contain?"  
Poirot hastily shook his head. "Madame, it is a formality, that is all."

"Are you so sure?"  
"In your case, yes."

McGonagall gained a curious expression on her face.

"And yet I knew and loved the Potters? What do you think, then? That I would not soil my hands with killing such canaille as that man Cassetti? Well, perhaps you are right."

She was silent a minute or two. Then she said:

"With such a man as that, do you know what I should have liked to do? Avada Kedavra would not be enough! I should have liked to call to my servants: 'Flog this man to death and fling him out on the rubbish heap!' Then I would spit on his corpse! Let the rats feed on his body! That is the way things were done when myself and my husband were young, Monsieur."

Still Poirot did not speak, just listened attentively.

The Princess looked at him with a sudden impetuosity. "You do not say anything, Poirot. What is it that you are thinking, I wonder?"

He looked at her with a very direct glance, one that harshly challenged her own cat-like eyes with his own. "I think, Madame, that your strength is in your will—not in your arms."

She glanced down at her thin, black-clad arms ending in those clawlike pale hands with the rings on the fingers.

"It is true," she said. "I no longer have much strength in these—none. I do not know whether I am sorry or glad."

For just a second, Poirot noted small tears in the woman's eyes.

Then she turned abruptly back towards where her maid was busily packing up the cases.

The Princess cut short M. Bouc's apologies. "There is no need for you to apologise, Monsieur," she said. "A murder has been committed. Certain actions have to be performed. That is all there is to it."  
"Vous êtes bien aimable, Madame." Bouc replied.

Princess McGonagall-Dragomiroff inclined her head slightly as they departed.

Upon returning to the York-Scotland carriage, they entered the compartment of Sybil Trelawney, the final compartment of any of the passengers.

The woman was standing in absolute readiness, her face respectful but unemotional.

Poirot took a quick glance through the contents of the small case on the seat. Then he motioned to the conductor to get down her bigger suitcase from the rack.

"The keys?" Poirot asked.  
"It is not locked, Monsieur." Sybil Trelawney replied.

Poirot undid the hasps and lifted the lid.

"Aha!" he said, and turning to M. Bouc, "You remember what I said? Look here a little moment!"

On the top of the suitcase was a hastily rolled-up brown Wagon Lit uniform.

The stolidity of the maid underwent a sudden change.

"Ach!" she cried. "That is not mine. I did not put it there. I have never looked in that case since we left York. Indeed, indeed, it cannot be true!" She looked from one to another of the men pleadingly.

Poirot took her gently by the arm and soothed her.

"No, no, all is well. We believe you. Do not be agitated. I am sure you did not hide the uniform there as I am sure that you are a good cook. See. You are a good cook, are you not?"

Bewildered, the woman smiled and nodded in spite of herself, "Yes, indeed, all my ladies have said so. I—"

She stopped, her mouth open, looking frightened again.

"No, no," said Poirot. "I assure you all is well. See, I will tell you how this happened. This man, the man you saw in Wagon Lit uniform, comes out of the toilet. He collides with you. That is bad luck for him. He has hoped that no one will see him. What to do next? He must get rid of his uniform once the crime is done. It is now not a safeguard, but a danger."

His glance went to M. Bow and Dr. Constantine, who were listening attentively.

"There is the snow, you see. The snow which confuses all his plans. Where can he hide these clothes? All the compartments are full. No, he passes someone whose compartment is now unattended and open, showing it to be unoccupied. It must be the one belonging to the woman with whom he has just collided. He slips in, removes the uniform and jams it hurriedly into an unlocked suitcase on the rack. It may be some time before it is discovered."

"And then?" said M. Bouc impatiently.

"That we must discuss," Poirot said with a warning glance.

Poirot then held up the tunic. A button, the third down, was missing. Poirot slipped his hand into the pocket and took out a conductor's master-key, used to unlock the doors of any of the doors or compartments of the train.

"That is the explanation of how one man was able to pass through locked doors," said M. Bouc. "Your questions to Mrs. Hubbard were unnecessary. Locked or not locked, the man could easily get through the communicating doors between her's and Riddle's compartments. After all, if a Wagon Lit uniform, why not a Wagon Lit key?"

"Why not indeed?" returned Poirot.

The three men walked into the corridor, and closed the door of Sybil's compartment behind them.

"We might have known it, really. You remember that Michel said that the door into the corridor of Mrs. Hubbard's compartment was locked when he came in answer to her bell." M. Bouc said.

"But now it is easy," continued M. Bouc. "Doubtless he meant to re-lock the communicating door, also, but perhaps he heard some movement from the bed and it startled him."

"We have now," murmured Poirot distantly, "to find the scarlet kimono."

"What next?" said M. Bouc. He had not heard Poirot's murmuring.

"We will go back to the dining-car," said Poirot. "We know now all that we can know for the moment. We have the evidence of the interviews, the evidence of their baggage, the evidence of our eyes. We can expect no further help from the passengers. It must be our part now to use our brains."

"Onward we go then my friend," Bouc said, beginning his walk back to the restaurant carriage.

Poirot felt in his pocket for his cigarette case. It was empty.

"I will join you in a moment," he said. "I shall need the cigarettes".

Poirot thought to himself as he walked to his compartment. 'This is a very difficult, a very curious, affair. Who wore that scarlet kimono? Where is it now? I wish I knew. There is something in this case—some factor—that escapes me! It is difficult because it has been made difficult on purpose'.

His frustration meant he went hurriedly along the corridors to his own compartment. He had, he knew, a further supply of cigarettes in one of his valises. He got it down and snapped back the lock. Then he sat back on his heels and stared.

Much to Poirot's astonishment, neatly folded on the top of the case was a thin scarlet silk kimono embroidered with dragons.

"So," he murmured aloud. "It is like that. A defiance. A challenge. Very well, I take it up."

'This'. Poirot then thought. 'Is war'.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Roles Characters Fill:
> 
> Hercule Poirot - As Himself.
> 
> Dr. Constantine - As Himself.
> 
> The Conductor - As Himself.
> 
> M. Bouc. - As Himself.
> 
> Hermione Granger - As Mary Hermione Debenham.
> 
> Ron Weasley - As Colonel Arbuthnot.
> 
> William 'Bill' Weasley - As Count Andrenyi.
> 
> Fleur Delacour - As Countess Helena Maria Andrenyi (nee Goldenberg).
> 
> Molly Weasley - As Mrs. Hubbard/Linda Arden (Goldenberg).
> 
> Draco Malfoy - As Hector MacQueen.
> 
> Minerva McGonagall - As Princess Natalia Dragomiroff.
> 
> Sybil Trelawney - As Hildegarde Schmidt.
> 
> Luna Lovegood - As Greta Ohlsson.
> 
> Remus Lupin - As Cyrus Bethman Hardman.
> 
> Neville Longbottom - As Edward Henry Masterman.
> 
> Tom Riddle/Lord Voldemort - As Ratchett/Casetti: The Murder Victim.
> 
> Nymphadora Tonks - As the nursemaid, Susanne (DECEASED).
> 
> Harry Potter - As Colonel Armstrong (DECEASED).
> 
> Ginevra Potter - As Sonia Armstrong (DECEASED).
> 
> Lily Luna Potter - As Daisy Armstrong (DECEASED).


	24. Which of them?

M. Bouc. and Dr. Constantine were talking together when Poirot entered the dining-car. 

Poirot did not mention the kimono.

M. Bouc was looking depressed.

"Le voilà," said the latter when he saw Poirot. Then he added, as his friend sat down, "If you solve this case, mon cher, I shall indeed believe in miracles!"

"It worries you, this case?" Poirot asked, as he lit a cigarette. 

"Naturally it worries me! I cannot make head or tail of it." Bouc shouted exasperatedly.

"I agree," said the doctor. He looked at Poirot with interest. "To be frank," he said, "I cannot see what you are going to do next."

"No!" said Poirot thoughtfully. His eyes were dreamy as he drew on his very small European cigarette. "But that, to me, is the interest of this case," he said. "As I said earlier today, we are cut off from all the normal routes of procedure. Are these people whose evidence we have taken speaking the truth, or lying? We have no means of finding out—except such means as we can devise ourselves. It is an exercise, this, of the brain."

"That is all very fine," said M. Bouc. "But what have you to go upon?"

"I told you just now. We have the evidence of the passengers and the evidence of our own eyes." Poirot said slowly.

"Pretty evidence—that of the passengers! It told us just nothing at all!" Bouc was being dramatic, and half-enjoying it.

Poirot shook his head.

"I do not agree, my friend. The evidence of the passengers gave us several points of interest."

"Indeed," said M. Bouc sceptically. "I did not observe it."

"That is because you did not listen." Poirot said bluntly. 

"Oh! Well! Do tell me, what did I miss?" Bouc quipped. 

"I will just take one instance—the first evidence we heard, that of Malfoy. He uttered, to my mind, one very significant phrase."

"About the letters?" Constantine asked. 

"No, not about the letters. As far as I can remember, his words were: 'Mr. Riddle wanted to see the world. He was hampered by knowing no languages. I acted more as a courier and guide than as a secretary.'" Poirot said this with great emphasis. 

Poirot looked from the doctor's face to that of M. Bouc.

"What? You still do not see? That is inexcusable—for you had a second chance again just now when he said, 'You're likely to be out of luck if you don't speak anything but good American.' "

"You mean—?" M. Bouc still looked puzzled.

"Ah, it is that you want it given to you in words of one syllable. Well, here it is! Riddle spoke no French! Yet, when the conductor came in answer to his bell last night, it was a voice speaking in French that told him that it was a mistake and that he was not wanted. It was, moreover, a perfectly idiomatic phrase that was used, not one that a man knowing only a few words of French would have selected. 'Ce n'est rien Je me suis trompé.'"

"It is true," cried Constantine excitedly. "We should have seen that! I remember your laying stress on the words when you repeated them to us. Now I understand your reluctance to rely upon the evidence of the dented watch. Already, at twenty-three minutes past twelve, Riddle was dead—"

"And it was his murderer speaking!" finished Bouc impressively.

Poirot raised a deprecating hand.

"Let us not go too fast. And do not let us assume more than we actually know. It is safe, I think, to say that at that time—twenty-three minutes past twelve—some other person was in Riddle's compartment, and that that person either was French or could speak the French language fluently."

"You are very cautious, mon vieux—" M. Bouc began. 

"One should advance only a step at a time. We have no actual evidence that Riddle was dead at that time."

"But there is the cry that awakened you?" Bouc suggested.

"Yes, that is true." Poirot answered. 

"In one way," said M. Bouc thoughtfully, "this discovery does not affect things very much. You later heard someone moving about next door. That someone was not Riddle, but the other person. If it was the murderer, doubtless he is washing blood from his hands, clearing up after the crime, burning the incriminating letter. Then he waits till all is still, and, when he thinks it is safe and the coast is clear, he locks and chains Riddle's door on the inside, unlocks the communicating door through into Mrs. Hubbard's compartment and slips out that way. In fact, it is exactly as we thought, with the difference that Riddle was killed a little over half an hour earlier and the watch put on to a quarter past one to create an alibi."

"Not such a famous alibi," said Poirot. "The hands of the watch pointed to 1.15—the exact time we think the intruder actually left the scene of the crime."

"True," said M. Bouc, a little confused. "What then does the watch convey to you?"

"If the hands were altered—I say if—then the time at which they were set must have a significance. The natural reaction would be to suspect anyone who had a reliable alibi for the time indicated—in this case, 1.15."

"Yes, yes," said the doctor. "That reasoning is good."

"We must also pay a little attention to the time the intruder entered the compartment. When had he an opportunity of doing so? Unless we are to assume the complicity of the real conductor, there was only one time when he could have done so—during the time the train stopped at Rannoch. Around midnight. After the train left Rannoch the conductor says he was sitting facing the corridor, and whereas any one of the passengers would pay little attention to a Wagon Lit attendant, the one person who would notice an impostor is the real conductor. But during the halt at Rannoch the conductor is out on the platform. The coast is clear."

"And by our former reasoning, it must be one of the passengers," said M. Bouc. "We come back to where we were. Which of them?"

Poirot smiled.

"I have made a list," he said. "If you like to see it, it will perhaps refresh your memory."

The doctor and M. Bouc pored over the list together. It was written out neatly in a methodical manner in the order in which the passengers had been interviewed.

Draco Lucius Malfoy, British-American subject, Compartment No. 4, Second Class.  
Motive: Possibly arising out of association with dead man?  
Alibi: From midnight to 2 A.M. (Midnight to 1.30 vouched for by Colonel Weasley, and 1. 15 to 2 vouched for by conductor.)  
Evidence against him: None as of yet.  
Suspicious circumstances: None as of yet.

CONDUCTOR Pierre Michel, French subject.  
Motive: None.  
Alibi: From midnight to 2 A.M. (Seen by H. P. in corridor at same time as voice spoke from Riddle's compartment at 12.23. From 1 A.M. to 1.15 vouched for by other conductor.)  
Evidence against him: Doors were unlocked from sleeper to seating cars, and he left his post to visit colleague, both conflict with company policy.  
Suspicious circumstances: The Wagon Lit uniform found is a point in his favour since it seems to have been intended to throw suspicion on him, rather than be his.

Neville Longbottom, British/English subject, Compartment 16, Second Class (shared).  
Motive: Possibly arising out of connection with deceased, whose valet he was.  
Alibi: From midnight to 2 A.M. (Vouched for by Remus Lupin.)  
Evidence against him or suspicious circumstances: None, except that he is the only man of the right height or size to have worn the Wagon Lit uniform. On the other hand, it is unlikely that he speaks French well.

Molly Hubbard, American subject, Compartment No. 3 at time of murder, First Class.  
Motive: None as of yet.  
Alibi for time of murder: None.  
Evidence against her or suspicious circumstances: Her Handkerchief initials do not fit her declared name, the story of a man in her compartment however is substantiated by evidence of button and that of the woman Sybil Trelawney. 

Luna Lovegood, Scandinavian-British subject, Compartment No. 8, Second Class (shared).  
Motive: None as of yet.  
Alibi: From midnight to 2 A.M. (Vouched for by Hermione Granger.)  
Evidence against her or suspicious circumstances: Pretended not to know of Lily Potter case.  
Note: Was last to see Riddle alive.

Princess Minerva McGonagall-Dragomiroff, British/Scottish subject, Compartment No. 11, First Class.  
Motive: Was intimately acquainted with Potter family, and links to the additional family of Mrs. Potter.  
Alibi: From midnight to 2 A.M. (Vouched for by conductor and maid.)  
Evidence against her or suspicious circumstances: None as of yet.

Count Delacour, French(?) subject, Diplomatic passport, Compartment No. 6/7, First Class.  
Motive: None as of yet.  
Alibi: None.  
Evidence against him or suspicious circumstances: Lived in America, Passport appears to have been tampered with. 

Countess Fleur Delacour, As above, Compartment 6/7, First Class.  
Motive: None as of yet.  
Alibi: Midnight to 2 A.M Took trional and slept. (Vouched for by husband. Trional bottle in her cupboard.)  
Evidence against her or suspicious circumstances: Lived in America, possibly acquainted with Potter family in some way. 

Colonel Ronald Weasley, British subject, Compartment No. 5, First Class.  
Motive: None as of yet.  
Alibi: Midnight to 2 A.M. Talked with Malfoy till at least 1.30. Went to own compartment and did not leave it. (Substantiated by Malfoy and conductor.)  
Evidence against him or suspicious circumstances: Pipe-cleaner.

Remus John Lupin, British subject, Compartment No. 16, Second Class (shared).  
Motive: None as of yet.  
Alibi: Midnight to 2 A.M. Did not leave compartment. (Substantiated by Neville Longbottom).  
Evidence against him or suspicious circumstances: Travelling under false pretences, however, seems to be working in aid of dead man.

Hermione Jean Debenham Granger, British subject, Berth No. 8, Second Class (shared).  
Motive: None as of yet.  
Alibi: Midnight to 2 A.M. (Vouched for by Luna Lovegood.)  
Evidence against her or suspicious circumstances: conversation overheard by H. P. and her refusal to explain it.

Sybil Trelawney, Naturalised British subject, Compartment No. 10, First Class.  
Motive: None as of yet.  
Alibi: Midnight to 2 A.M. (Vouched for by other conductor and her own mistress.) Went to bed. Was risen by conductor at 12.45 approx. and went to mistress.  
Evidence against her or suspicious circumstances: Seems nervous given lack of other evidence towards her, uniform found in her compartment, was not aware of times. 

Additional Note: The evidence of the passengers is largely supported by the statement of the conductor (Pierre Michel; London-Scotland carriage) that no one entered or left Mr. Riddle's compartment, or left their own compartments, from midnight to 1 o'clock approx. (when he himself went into the next coach) and from 1.15 to 2 o'clock.

"That document, you understand," said Poirot, "is a mere précis of the evidence we heard, arranged in that way for convenience."

With a grimace, M. Bouc handed it back. "It is not as illuminating as you make it appear," he said.

"No? Well. Perhaps you may find this more to your taste," said Poirot, with a slight smile as he handed him a second sheet of paper.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Roles Characters Fill:
> 
> Hercule Poirot - As Himself.
> 
> Dr. Constantine - As Himself.
> 
> The Conductor - As Himself.
> 
> M. Bouc. - As Himself.
> 
> Hermione Granger - As Mary Hermione Debenham.
> 
> Ron Weasley - As Colonel Arbuthnot.
> 
> William 'Bill' Weasley - As Count Andrenyi.
> 
> Fleur Delacour - As Countess Helena Maria Andrenyi (nee Goldenberg).
> 
> Molly Weasley - As Mrs. Hubbard/Linda Arden (Goldenberg).
> 
> Draco Malfoy - As Hector MacQueen.
> 
> Minerva McGonagall - As Princess Natalia Dragomiroff.
> 
> Sybil Trelawney - As Hildegarde Schmidt.
> 
> Luna Lovegood - As Greta Ohlsson.
> 
> Remus Lupin - As Cyrus Bethman Hardman.
> 
> Neville Longbottom - As Edward Henry Masterman.
> 
> Tom Riddle/Lord Voldemort - As Ratchett/Casetti: The Murder Victim.
> 
> Nymphadora Tonks - As the nursemaid, Susanne (DECEASED).
> 
> Harry Potter - As Colonel Armstrong (DECEASED).
> 
> Ginevra Potter - As Sonia Armstrong (DECEASED).
> 
> Lily Luna Potter - As Daisy Armstrong (DECEASED).


	25. Ten Questions

On the second piece of paper was written:

THINGS NEEDING EXPLANATION

1\. The handkerchief marked with the initial M. Whose is it?  
2\. The pipe-cleaner. Was it dropped by Colonel Weasley? Or someone else?  
3\. Who wore the scarlet kimono?  
4\. Who was the man or woman masquerading in Wagon Lit uniform?  
5\. Why do the hands of the watch point to 1.15?  
6\. Was the murder committed at that time?  
7\. Was it earlier?  
8\. Was it later?  
9\. Can we be sure that Riddle was stabbed by more than one person?  
10\. What other explanation of his wounds can there be?

"Well, let us see what we can do," said M. Bouc, brightening a little at this challenge to his wits. "The handkerchief, to begin with. Let us by all means be orderly and methodical."

"Assuredly," said Poirot, nodding his head in a satisfied fashion.

M. Bouc continued somewhat didactically. "The initial M is for sure connected with two people—Mrs. Molly Hubbard, and Princess McGonagall-Dragomiroff, whose first name is Minerva."

"Ah! And of those, who would you guess?" Poirot asked his friend.

"It is difficult to say. But I think I should vote for the Princess. For all one knows she may be called by her first name and not her title. Also there is already some suspicion attaching to her. Her connection to the Potter family, was certainly a little curious, and more so is her lack of knowledge about the remaining members and connections."

"As for me, I plump for the American," said Dr. Constantine. "It is a very expensive handkerchief, that; and Americans, as all the world knows, do not care what they pay."

"So you both eliminate anyone else on the train?" asked Poirot. He was considering alternatives. What if the M were a W? The Colonel for instance could own it. Or perhaps...

"Yes. As that maid said, it is the handkerchief of a member of the upper classes." Bouc answered. 

Poirot's thoughts were interrupted by this answer. 

M. Bouc continued once again, "And the second question the pipe-cleaner. Did Colonel Weasley drop it, or somebody else? That is more difficult. The English, they do not stab savagely. I incline to the view that someone else would have dropped the pipe-cleaner, and did so to incriminate the long-legged Englishman."

"As you said, M. Poirot," put in the doctor, "two clues is too much carelessness. I agree with M. Bouc. The handkerchief was a genuine oversight—hence none of the women will admit that it is hers. The pipe-cleaner is a faked clue. In support of that theory, you notice that Colonel Weasley shows no embarrassment and admits freely to smoking a pipe and using that type of cleaner."

"You both reason well," said Poirot gently.

"Question No. 3—Who wore the scarlet kimono!" went on M. Bouc. "As to that, I will confess I have not the slightest idea. Have you any views on the subject, Dr. Constantine?"

"None."

"Then we confess ourselves beaten there. The next question has, at any rate, possibilities. Who was the man or the woman masquerading in Wagon Lit uniform? Well, one can list with certainty a number of people that it could not have been. Lupin, Colonel Weasley, Count Delacour, and Malfoy are all too tall. Mrs. Hubbard is too broad. Miss Granger, Princess Dragomiroff and Countess Delacour are also too tall. That leaves only the valet- and he as we have said, would probably know no French, or Sybil Trelawney, who sounds very unlikely considering she says she saw the man!" 

Constantine then sprang into a monologue himself. "Absolutely nobody sounds likely! Regardless of height and weight. Luna Lovegood in one case, and Neville Longbottom in the other, both swear that Miss Granger and Mr. Lupin never left their compartments. They did not either if they are to be believed of their accounts. Sybil Trelawney swears that the Princess was in bed, and Count Delacour has told us that his wife took a sleeping draught. Malfoy and the Colonel vouch for each-other, and so it therefore it seems impossible that it can be anybody—which is absurd!"

Bouc nodded to every point. Poirot stared on, listening.

"It must be one of the passengers," said Dr. Constantine. "Unless it is someone from outside who has found a hiding-place—and that we agreed was impossible."

M. Bouc had passed on to the next question on the list.

"No. 5—Why do the hands of the broken watch point to 1.15? I can see two explanations of that. Either it was done by the murderer to establish an alibi, and afterwards, when he meant to leave the compartment, he was prevented by hearing people moving about; or else—wait—I have an idea coming—"

The other two waited respectfully while M. Bouc struggled in mental agony.

"I have it," he said at last. "It was not the Wagon Lit murderer who tampered with the watch! It was the person we have called the Second Murderer—the left-handed person—in other words the woman in the scarlet kimono. She arrives later and moves back the hands of the watch in order to make an alibi for herself."

"Bravo said Dr. Constantine. "It is well imagined, that."

"In fact," said Poirot, "she stabbed him in the dark, not realising that he was dead already, but somehow deduced that he had a watch in his pyjama pocket, took it out, put back the hands blindly, and gave it the requisite dent."

M. Bouc looked at Poirot coldly. "Have you anything better to suggest, yourself?" he asked. 

"At the moment—no," admitted Poirot. "All the same," he went on, "I do not think you have either of you appreciated the most interesting point about that watch."

"Does question No. 6 deal with it?" asked the doctor. "To that question—Was the murder committed at that time, 1.15?—I answer it is possible, but unlikely."

"I agree," said M. Bouc. "'Was it earlier?' is the next question. I say—Yes! You, too, doctor?"

The doctor nodded. "But the question 'Was it later?' can also be answered in the affirmative. It is confusing. I can agree with your theory, M. Bouc. Let us say The First Murderer came earlier than 1. 15, but the Second Murderer came after 1.15. It leaves things complex. And as regards the question of left-handedness, ought we not to take steps to ascertain which of the passengers is left-handed?"

"I have not completely neglected that point," said Poirot. "You may have noticed that I made each passenger write either a signature or an address. That is not conclusive, because some people do certain actions with the right hand and others with the left. Some write right-handed, but play golf left-handed. Still, it is something. Every person questioned took the pen in his or her right hand—with the exception of Princess McGonagall Dragomiroff, who refused to write."

"Princess Dragomiroff—" said M. Bouc.

"I doubt if she would have had the strength to inflict that left-handed blow," said Dr. Constantine dubiously. 'That particular wound had been inflicted with considerable force."  
"More force than a woman could use?" Bouc asked.  
"No, I would not say that. But I think more force than an elderly woman could display, and Princess Dragomiroff's physique is particularly frail."

"It might be a question of the influence of mind over body," said Poirot. "Princess Dragomiroff has great personality and immense willpower. But let us pass from that for the moment."

"To questions 9 and 10? Can we be sure that Riddle was stabbed by more than one person, and what other explanation of the wounds can there be? In my opinion, medically speaking, there can be no other explanation of those wounds. To suggest that one man struck first feebly and then with violence, first with the right hand and then with the left, and after an interval of perhaps half an hour, came back and inflicted more fresh wounds on a dead body—well, it does not make sense." 

"No," said Poirot. "It does not make sense. And you think that two murderers do make sense?"

"As you yourself have said, what other explanation can there be?" Constantine asked, whilst Bouc nodded to emphasise the point. 

Poirot stared straight ahead of him. "That is what I ask myself," he said. "That is what I never cease to ask myself." He leaned back in his seat.

"From now on, it is all here." Poirot tapped himself on the forehead. "We have thrashed it all out. The facts so far are all in front of us—neatly arranged with order and method. The passengers have sat here, one by one, giving their evidence. We know all that can be known—from outside..."

Poirot then gave M. Bouc an affectionate smile. "It has been a little joke between us, has it not—this business of sitting back and thinking out the truth? Well, I am about to put my theory into practice—here before your eyes. You two must do the same. Let us all three close our eyes and think. One or more of those passengers killed Riddle. Which of them?"

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Roles Characters Fill:
> 
> Hercule Poirot - As Himself.
> 
> Dr. Constantine - As Himself.
> 
> The Conductor - As Himself.
> 
> M. Bouc. - As Himself.
> 
> Hermione Granger - As Mary Hermione Debenham.
> 
> Ron Weasley - As Colonel Arbuthnot.
> 
> William 'Bill' Weasley - As Count Andrenyi.
> 
> Fleur Delacour - As Countess Helena Maria Andrenyi (nee Goldenberg).
> 
> Molly Weasley - As Mrs. Hubbard/Linda Arden (Goldenberg).
> 
> Draco Malfoy - As Hector MacQueen.
> 
> Minerva McGonagall - As Princess Natalia Dragomiroff.
> 
> Sybil Trelawney - As Hildegarde Schmidt.
> 
> Luna Lovegood - As Greta Ohlsson.
> 
> Remus Lupin - As Cyrus Bethman Hardman.
> 
> Neville Longbottom - As Edward Henry Masterman.
> 
> Tom Riddle/Lord Voldemort - As Ratchett/Casetti: The Murder Victim.
> 
> Nymphadora Tonks - As the nursemaid, Susanne (DECEASED).
> 
> Harry Potter - As Colonel Armstrong (DECEASED).
> 
> Ginevra Potter - As Sonia Armstrong (DECEASED).
> 
> Lily Luna Potter - As Daisy Armstrong (DECEASED).


	26. Certain Suggestive Points

It was quite a quarter of an hour before anyone spoke. The sun had began to set. 

M. Bouc and Dr. Constantine had started by trying to obey Poirot's instructions. They had endeavoured to see through a maze of conflicting particulars to a clear and outstanding solution.

Bouc's thoughts had run something as follows:

'Assuredly I must think. But as far as that goes I have already thought... Poirot obviously thinks that this English girl is mixed up in the matter. I cannot help feeling that that is most unlikely... The English are extremely cold. Probably it is because they have no figures. But that is not the point. It seems that the man with tan suits could not have done it—a pity. I suppose the valet is not lying when he said the other never left the compartment? But why should he! It is not easy to bribe the English; they are so unapproachable. The whole thing is most unfortunate. I wonder when we shall get out of this. There must be some rescue work in progress. They are so slow in these countries... it is hours before anyone thinks of doing anything. And the police of these countries, they will be most trying to deal with—puffed up with  
importance, touchy, on their dignity. They will make a grand affair of all this. It will be in all the newspapers. ..."

And from there on, M. Bouc's thoughts went along a well-worn self-centred and egotistical course which they had already traversed some hundred times.

Dr. Constantine's thoughts ran thus:

'Poirot is strange, this little man. A genius? Or a crank? Will he solve this mystery? Impossible—I can see no way out of it. It is all too confusing... Everyone is lying, perhaps... But even then, that does not help one. If they are all lying, it is just as confusing as if they were speaking the truth. Odd about those wounds. I cannot understand it... It would be easier to understand if he had been shot—after all, the term 'gunman' must mean that they shoot with a gun. A curious country, America. I should like to go there. It is so progressive. When I get home I must get hold of Demetrius Zagone—he has been to America, he has all the modern ideas... I wonder what my dear Zia is doing at this moment. If my wife ever finds out before I can wire her—"

His thoughts then went on to entirely private matters.

Hercule Poirot meanwhile, sat very still. One might have thought he was asleep. 

And then, suddenly, after a quarter of an hour's complete immobility his eyebrows began to move slowly up his forehead. A little sigh escaped him. He murmured beneath his breath.

"But after all, why not? And if so—why, if so, that would explain everything."

His eyes opened. They were like a cat's. Far more so now than the Princess's. 

He said softly: "Eh bien. I have thought. And you?"

Lost in their reflections, both men started violently.

"I have thought also," said M. Bouc, just a shade guiltily. "But I have arrived at no conclusion. The elucidation of crime is your métier, not mine, my friend."

"I, too, have reflected with great earnestness," said the doctor, unblushingly recalling his thoughts, "I have thought of many possible theories, but not one that really satisfies me."

Poirot nodded amiably. His nod seemed to say: "Quite right. That is the proper thing to say. You have given me the cue I expected."

Poirot then sat very upright, threw out his chest, caressed his moustache and spoke in the manner of a practised speaker addressing a public meeting.

"My friends, I have reviewed the facts in my mind, and have also gone over to myself the evidence of the passengers—with this result: I see, nebulously as yet, a certain explanation that would cover the facts as we know them. It is a very curious explanation, and I cannot be sure as yet that it is the true one. To find out definitely I shall have to make certain experiments".

"I would like first to mention certain points which appear to me suggestive. Let us start with a remark made to me by M. Bouc in this very place on the occasion of our first lunch together on the train. He commented on the fact that we were surrounded by people of all classes, of all ages, of all nationalities. That is a fact somewhat rare at this time of year. The trains I took to get here from the continent, for instance, were almost empty. Remember also, the fact that these passengers all mostly arrived onto the train at the same time. Then there are some minor points that strike me as suggestive—for instance, the position of Mrs. Hubbard's sponge-bag, the name of Mrs. Potter's mother, the methods of Lupin, the suggestion of Malfoy that Riddle himself destroyed the charred note we found."

He paused, took a deep breath, and then continued. 

"Then we have of course, Princess McGonagall-Dragomiroff's Christian name, and a grease spot on the expiry date of a tattered French Diplomatic passport."

The two men stared at him in disbelief.

"Do they suggest anything to you, those points?" asked Poirot.

"Not a thing," said M. Bouc frankly after a moment.

"And Monsieur le docteur?" Poirot directed at Constantine.

"I do not understand in the least what you are talking of." Constantine replied, jaw a little open in astonishment. 

M. Bouc, meanwhile, seizing upon the one tangible thing his friend had mentioned, was sorting through the passports. With a grunt he picked up those of Count and Countess Delacour's and opened it.

"Is this what you mean? This dirty mark?" Bouc said, pointing into the Count's. 

"Yes. It is a fairly fresh grease spot. You notice where it occurs?" Poirot was trying his best to help his friend. 

"It covers the birth year and year of expiry. But I confess that I still do not see the point?"

"I am going to approach it from another angle. Let us go back to the handkerchief found at the scene of the crime. As we stated not long ago, two people are associated with the letter M: Mrs. Hubbard, and the Princess." Poirot said softly.

"Yes?" Constantine and Bouc both said successively. 

"Well. Now let us regard that handkerchief from another point of view. It is, my friends, an extremely expensive handkerchief—an objet de luxe, hand-made, embroidered in Paris. Which of the passengers, apart from the initial, was likely to own such a handkerchief? Not Mrs. Hubbard, a worthy woman with no pretensions to reckless extravagance in dress. Not Miss Granger— that class of Englishwoman has a dainty linen handkerchief, not an expensive piece of cambric costing perhaps two hundred francs. And certainly not the maid. But there are two women on the train who would be likely to own such a handkerchief. Let us see if we can connect them in any way with the letter M. The two women I refer to are Princess Dragomiroff—"

"Whose Christian name is Minerva," put in M. Bouc.

"Exactly. The other woman is Countess Delacour. And at once something strikes us—"

Poirot looked at the two men, who wore confused faces.

"Strikes me, then. Her husband's name on his passport is that of her deceased father's. The birth date and year of expiry disfigured by a blob of grease. Just an accident, anyone without deep thought would say. But consider that this woman was brought up in America after the destruction of her family, ran away from the tragedy, would she really pass that family name on with such pride?"

"Suppose that, instead of being Alexandre Delacour, instead of taking his wife's tragic name, this man is another. Those dates on her father's passport could be covered and then run over with new details quite easily—and then a spot of grease dropped to cover up the alteration, so that her husband can use it for a disguise. Perhaps the handkerchief itself is even his."

"Go on!" cried M. Bouc. "It is an idea, that."

"Certainly it is an idea! I look about for any confirmation, however slight, of my idea—and I find it. One of the luggage labels on the Count's baggage is slightly damp. It is one that happens to run over the initials on the case. That label has been soaked off and put on again in a different place. His suitcase, his personalised and expensive suitcase, his initials which he paid so much for are covered by a wet label, and do you know what letters I felt underneath? W.W. !"

"You begin to convince me," said M. Bouc. "But the Count and Countess—surely—"

"Ah, now, mon vieux, you must turn yourself round and approach an entirely different angle of the case. How was this murder intended to appear to everybody? Do not forget that the snow has upset all the murderer's original plan. Let us imagine, for a little minute, that there is no snow, that the train proceeded on its normal course. What, then, would have happened? The murder, let us say, would still have been discovered in all probability at Fort William or another closer station early this morning. Much of the same evidence would have been given to the Scottish police. The threatening letters would have been produced by Malfoy, Lupin would have told his story; Mrs. Hubbard would have been eager to tell how a man passed through her compartment; the button would have been found". 

Poirot went on. 

"I imagine that three things would have been different. The man would have passed through Mrs. Hubbard's compartment not long before one, rather than after, the Wagon Lit uniform would have been found cast off in one of the toilets, and the crime scene would not have been cleaned so well."

"You mean?" Bouc asked. 

"I mean that the murder was planned to look like an outside job. It would have been presumed that the assassin had left the train at Carrour where it is usually timed to arrive at around one in the morning. Somebody would probably claim to have passed a strange Wagon Lit conductor in the corridor. The uniform would be left in a conspicuous place so as to show clearly just how the trick had been played. No suspicion would have attached to the passengers. That, my friends, was how the affair was intended to appear to the outside world."

"This all fits!" Constantine cried. 

Poirot ignored the interruption. "But the accident to the train changes everything. Doubtless we have here the reason why the man was having to be seen as having remained in the compartment with his victim so long. The character was meant to be waiting for the train to go on to the station for his exit. But at last he realised that the train was not going on- the snowdrift meant it was not going to move again. Different plans would have to be made. The murderer would now be known to be still on the train. The man can no longer really exist! It is at least one of the passengers!"

"Yes, yes," said M. Bouc impatiently. "I see all that. But where does the handkerchief come in?"

"I am returning to it by a somewhat circuitous route. To begin with, you must realise that the threatening letters were in the nature of a blind. They might have been lifted bodily out of an indifferently written American crime novel. They are not real. They are, in fact, simply intended for the police. What we have to ask ourselves is: 'Did they deceive Riddle?' On the face of it, the answer seems to be No. His instructions to Lupin, and indeed to me, seem to point to a definite 'private' enemy, of whose identity he was well aware. That is, if we accept Lupin's story as true. But Riddle certainly received one letter of a very different character—the one containing a reference to the Potter baby, a fragment of which we found in his compartment. In case Riddle had not realised it sooner, this was to make sure that he understood the reason of the threats against his life."

"That letter, as I have said all along, was not intended to be found. The murderer's first care was to destroy it. This, then, was the second hitch in his plans. The first was the snow, the second was our reconstruction of that fragment. That the note was destroyed so carefully can mean only one thing. There must be on the train someone so intimately connected with the Potter family that the finding of that note would immediately direct suspicion upon that person."

"Now we come to the other two clues that we found. I pass over the pipe-cleaner. We have already said a good deal about that. Let us pass on to the handkerchief. Taken at its simplest it is a clue which directly incriminates someone who is of high class, and whose initial is not M, but W! And it was dropped there unwittingly by that person."

"Exactly," said Dr. Constantine. "He or she finds out that they has dropped the handkerchief and immediately takes steps to conceal their true details."

"How fast you go! You arrive at a conclusion much sooner than I would permit myself to do." Poirot was genuinely impressed. 

"Is there any other alternative?" Constantine then asked. 

"Oh certainly there is. Suppose, for instance, that you have committed a crime and wish to cast the blame for it on someone else. Well, there is on the train a certain person connected intimately with the Potter family. Suppose, then, that you leave there a handkerchief belonging to that person. They will be questioned, their connection with the Potter family will be brought out—et voilà: motive—and an incriminating article of evidence." Poirot replied quickly. 

"But in such a case," objected the doctor, "the person indicated, being innocent, would not take steps to conceal their real identity."

"Ah, really?" Poirot started again, "That is what you think? That is, truly, the opinion of the police court. But I know human nature, my friend, and I tell you that, suddenly confronted with the possibility of being tried for murder, the most innocent person will lose his head and do the most absurd things. No, no, the grease spot and the changed label do not prove guilt—they only prove that the Count and Countess are anxious for some reason to conceal one or the other's identity."

"What do you think their connection with the Potter family can be?" Constantine pressed. 

"Well, she was raised in America! What if we suppose for a moment, her guardians were this family or someone connected with it! And the count? He says he has only been to Washington- the opposite side of America to New York. Well- exactly! Have I not said how English he appears to be? Like Ginevra and Harry Potter themselves! He did not know the Belgian spoke French, I doubt he is really French, he only masquerades as this through his wife, and she has a very foreign appearance which she exaggerates. But it should not be difficult to guess who he is."

"I cannot guess it," M. Bouc said plainly. 

Poirot then burst into a long drawn out monologue that he had been eager to speak. 

"I mentioned just today the name of Mrs. Ginevra Potter's mother. It was 'Margaret,' and she was a very celebrated actress—among other things a Shakespearean actress. It was home that she got her acting name, the Prewett family's Empire Theatre, London. 'Margaret Prewett' the name by which she was known all over the world, her maiden name. Well, I say, this Mr. W. W.- his surname will be the real one of Margaret and her children, and indeed most importantly the maiden name of Mrs. Potter! I say! This Count is her brother, Mr. Potter's brother-in-law! He met Fleur through her introduction into the family, and et voila, this is where we find ourselves!"

Poirot looked to the men still staring at him, making sure he still had their undivided attention. He certainly did. 

"Let us say this Englishman gentlemen, the older brother of Mrs. Potter, visited the family in New York when he was an attaché in Washington, and there he found a blonde-haired beauty, a Countess of a French family, under the care of either his own mother, or his sister's household, and they fell in love!"

"But Princess McGonagall-Dragomiroff says that she does not remember anything of the younger generation, if someone from this train was there, why did she not mention it?" Bouc asked in exhausted fashion.

"I ask you, my friends, is that really likely? Princess McGonagall-Dragomiroff loved Margaret Prewett as great ladies do love great artists. They became close friends. She was godmother to one of the actress's daughters, and then godmother to Ginevra's own children. Would she forget so quickly the fate of the rest of the family? Their faces? It is not likely. No, I think we can safely say that Minerva was lying. She knew this family was on the train, she had seen them. She realised at once, as soon as she heard who Riddle really was, that Fleur and her husband would be suspected. And so, when we question her as to the whereabouts of the rest of the family, she promptly lies—is vague, cannot remember, a suggestion as far away from the truth as possible!"

One of the restaurant attendants came through the door at the end and approached them. He addressed M. Bouc. "The dinner, Monsieur, shall I serve it? It is ready some little time."

M. Bouc looked at Poirot. The latter nodded. "By all means, let dinner be served." 

The attendant vanished through the doors at the other end. His bell could be heard ringing and his voice upraised:

"Premier service. Le dîner est servi. Premier dîner—First service."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Roles Characters Fill:
> 
> Hercule Poirot - As Himself.
> 
> Dr. Constantine - As Himself.
> 
> The Conductor - As Himself.
> 
> M. Bouc. - As Himself.
> 
> Hermione Granger - As Mary Hermione Debenham.
> 
> Ron Weasley - As Colonel Arbuthnot.
> 
> William 'Bill' Weasley - As Count Andrenyi.
> 
> Fleur Delacour - As Countess Helena Maria Andrenyi (nee Goldenberg).
> 
> Molly Weasley - As Mrs. Hubbard/Linda Arden (Goldenberg).
> 
> Draco Malfoy - As Hector MacQueen.
> 
> Minerva McGonagall - As Princess Natalia Dragomiroff.
> 
> Sybil Trelawney - As Hildegarde Schmidt.
> 
> Luna Lovegood - As Greta Ohlsson.
> 
> Remus Lupin - As Cyrus Bethman Hardman.
> 
> Neville Longbottom - As Edward Henry Masterman.
> 
> Tom Riddle/Lord Voldemort - As Ratchett/Casetti: The Murder Victim.
> 
> Nymphadora Tonks - As the nursemaid, Susanne (DECEASED).
> 
> Harry Potter - As Colonel Armstrong (DECEASED).
> 
> Ginevra Potter - As Sonia Armstrong (DECEASED).
> 
> Lily Luna Potter - As Daisy Armstrong (DECEASED).


	27. Count William Weasley

For dinner, Poirot continued to share a table with M. Bouc and the doctor.

The company assembled in the restaurant car was a very subdued one. They spoke little.  
Even the loquacious Mrs. Hubbard was unnaturally quiet. 

She murmured as she sat:

"I don't feel as though I had the heart to eat anything," and then partook of everything offered her, encouraged by Luna Lovegood, who seemed to regard her as a special character.

Before the meal was served, Poirot had caught the chief restaurant attendant by the sleeve and murmured something to him. Dr. Constantine made a pretty good guess as to what the instructions had been when he noticed that the Count and Countess Delacour were always served last, and that at the end of the meat there was a delay in making out their bill. It therefore came about that the Count and Countess were the last left in the restaurant car.

When they rose at length and moved in the direction of the door, Poirot sprang up and followed them.

"Pardon me, Madame la Countess, you have dropped your handkerchief?" 

He was holding out to her the monogrammed square of cambric.

The Countess took it, glanced at it, then handed it back to him. "You are mistaken, Monsieur, that is not my handkerchief."

"Not your handkerchief? Are you sure? Could it be your husband's?"

"Perfectly sure, Monsieur." Fleur was using her best smile. 

"And yet, Madame, it has your initial—the initial W?" 

The Count made a sudden nervous movement. Poirot ignored him. His eyes were fixed on the Countess's face.

Looking steadily at him she replied: "I do not understand, Monsieur. My initials are F. I. D." 

"Hmm, then Monsieur le Count? Your initials are W.W. are they not?"

"No, Monsieur Poirot, they are A. D." The Count spoke, his false French accent flailing, and his skin turning the same red as his hair. 

"I think not. Your name is... ah, yes, Weasley? One of the older sons of Margaret Prewett, the brother of Mrs. Potter?" Poirot asserted this in English. 

There was a dead silence for a minute or two. Both the Count and the Countess had now gone deadly white.

Poirot said in a gentler tone: "It is of no use denying. That is the truth, is it not Monsieur?"

The Count burst out furiously, "I demand, sir, by what right you—"

The Countess interrupted him, putting up a small hand towards his mouth.

"No, Bill. It is useless to deny what this gentleman says. We had better sit down and talk the matter out."

"Okay, love." Count William Weasley said quickly. 

His voice had changed. It was, for the first time, a definitely English voice, accent and all.

The Count obeyed the gesture of his wife's hand and they both sat down opposite Poirot.

"Your statement, sir, is quite true," said the Count. "I am William Weasley, one of the older siblings of Ginny, and the older brother of Colonel Ronald Weasley."

"You did not acquaint me with these facts this morning, Monsieur le Count."

"No." William said, somewhat hoarse. 

"In fact, all that your wife and yourself told me was a tissue of lies!" Poirot said, half-bitter, half-triumphant. 

"Mr. Poirot!" cried the Count angrily.

"Do not be angry, Bill. Poirot puts the fact rather brutally, but what he says is undeniable."

The Countess still had such a charming voice, her French accent beautiful and genuine- it sedated her husband immediately. 

"I am glad you admit the fact so freely, Madame," Poirot began, "Now, William, will you now tell me your reasons for altering your identity?"

"That was my doing entirely," put in the Countess before her husband could respond.

Fleur said quietly: "Surely, Monsieur Poirot, you can guess my reason— our reason. This man who was killed, is the man who murdered our baby niece, who by extension killed Bill's sister- my sister-in-law, and, who broke our brother-in-law's heart. Three of the people we loved best and who made up our home—our world! Gone!"

Her voice rang out passionately. It was clear now who had helped raise her. She was a true adopted relative of Margaret Prewett, the emotional force of whose acting had moved huge audiences to tears.

Fleur went on more quietly, very close to tears herself, her husband by her side and looking even more inconsolable.

"Monsieur Poirot, of all the people on the train we had probably the best motive for killing him." The Countess forced out.  
"And you did not kill him, Madame?"  
"I swear to you, Monsieur Poirot—and my husband knows—and will swear also—that much as I may have been tempted to do so, I never lifted a hand against that man."

"I, too, sir." said the Count. "I give you my word of honour that last night Fleur never left her compartment. She took a sleeping draught exactly as I said. She is utterly and entirely innocent."

Poirot looked from one to the other of them.

"On my word of honour," repeated the Count.

Poirot shook his head slightly.

"And yet you took it upon yourself to alter your identity?"

"Monsieur Poirot," the Count said earnestly and passionately, having inherited his mother's manner just as much. "Consider my position. Do you think I could stand the thought of me and my wife dragged through a sordid police case? We are innocent, I knew it, but what she said was true—because of our connection with the Potter family we would have been immediately suspected. She would have been questioned, arrested, perhaps. Since some evil chance had taken us on the same train as this man Riddle, there was, I felt sure, but one thing for it. I admit, Monsieur, that I lied to you, save one thing. My wife truly never left her compartment last night."

Count William spoke with such an earnestness, that it was hard to doubt the man.

"I do not say that I disbelieve you, Monsieur," said Poirot slowly. "Both of your families are, or at least were, I know, proud and ancient ones. It would be bitter indeed for you to have your wife dragged into an unpleasant police case. With that I can sympathise. But how then do you explain the presence of your wife's- or perhaps your own handkerchief actually in the dead man's compartment?" 

"That handkerchief is not mine, Monsieur," said the Countess.

"Nor is it mine," Count William repeated. 

"In spite of the initial W?" Poirot asked.

"In spite of the initial. We both have handkerchiefs not unlike that, mine very similar, but red and gold, not one that is exactly of that type. My wife's are blue with her three initials. I know, of course, that I cannot hope to make you believe me, but I assure you that it is so. That handkerchief is not ours." William said softly. 

"It may have been placed there by someone in order to incriminate one of you?" Poirot suggested.

Fleur smiled a little. "You are enticing us to admit that, after all, it is one of ours? But indeed, Monsieur Poirot, it isn't." She spoke with great earnestness, matched only by her husband's.

"Then why, if the handkerchief was not yours, did you alter your luggage, and use the passport?" Poirot was struggling to be sympathetic, though he was nonetheless trying. 

The Count answered this.

"Because we heard that a handkerchief had been found with the initial W on it. We talked the matter over together before we came to be interviewed. I pointed out to Fleur that if it were seen that my  
names both began with an W, she and I would immediately be subjected to much more rigorous questioning. And the thing was so simple."

"You have, both of you, the intricate intellectual makings of a very fine criminal," remarked Poirot drily. "A great natural ingenuity, and an apparently remorseless determination to mislead justice."

"Oh, no, no." The Countess leaned forward. "Monsieur Poirot, Bill's explained to you how it was." 

The Count took over. "I was scared— both of us were- absolutely dead scared, you understand. It's not easy for a man to admit that to a stranger. But sir, It had been so awful—that time—and to have it all raked up again. And to be suspected and perhaps thrown into prison- and for my wife to be at risk too. I was just scared stiff, Mr. Poirot. Can't you understand at all?"

His voice was lovely—deep—rich—pleading, the voice of the son of Margaret Prewett, the actress.

Poirot looked gravely at the couple in front of him.

"If I am to believe you, both of you—and I do not say that I will not believe you—then you must help me."

"Help you?" The Count and Countess both replied in perfect synchronisation. 

"First, Monsieur, I will need your real passport?" Poirot said.

Out of the pocket of his tweed blazer, William brought out a British passport, and a French Diplomatic one. He legally had joint-citizenship. 

Both said clearly: "Christian name, William; Middle name, Arthur; Surname, Weasley; age, thirty six."

The French passport's only difference to the British one being the presence of his title. It was far newer than the tatty one from earlier.

Poirot smiled and thanked the Count, his approach to the couple became suddenly far warmer, and somewhat gentler. 

"Now. I also want the facts. The reason for the murder lies in the past—in that tragedy which broke up your homes and saddened your young lives. Take me back into the past, so that I may find there the link that explains the whole thing."

"What can there be to tell you? They are all dead." The Count replied mournfully: "All dead—all dead—Harry, Ginny— little Lily. She was so sweet—so happy—she had such lovely curls of red hair."

"Perhaps Madame la Countess, how you came to know the family?" Poirot suggested. 

Fleur repressed some tears, and answered him. "During the Great War, as you know Monsieur, the German forces took over France, my home was destroyed, my sister, my mother, and all the rest, they were killed in the conflict of it all. Our estate burned to the ground. C'était trop. Too much for a child of my age. I was just ten years old in 1915. The Weasley family took me in right away, we were already friends before the war, and I came to know all of them as my own. Then in 1930, we moved into the Potter Mansion, after I'd married Bill, then three years ago- it happened, dearest Lily- murdered." 

"There was another victim in the Potter tragedy, aside from Mr. and Mrs. Potter, and of course the dear child. An indirect victim, you might say." Poirot stated, keen to see if she would elaborate on the fact.

"Poor Nymphadora? Yes, I hadn't forgotten about her. The police questioned her. They were convinced that she had something to do with it. Perhaps she had—but if so only innocently. She had, I believe, chatted idly with someone in a department store, giving information as to the time of Lily's outings. The man kidnapped her whilst the Governess took Lily out to a park. The poor thing- Nymphadora got terribly wrought up—she thought she was being held responsible." The Countess shuddered, and could not speak anymore, she buried her face in her hands. 

The Count took over. "You see, sir, she threw herself out of the window. It was horrible."

"What was her last name?" Poirot then asked the Count.  
"It's absurd, but I can't remember— we all called her Nymphadora. A pretty, laughing girl. She was devoted to Lily."

Poirot was certain the Count had lied, and that he did in fact know the surname. 

"She was the nursery-maid, was she not?"  
"Yes." The Count said, sounding somewhat like the Colonel. 

"Who was the nurse Monsieur le Count?"  
"She was a trained hospital nurse. She too was devoted to Lily—and to my sister."

"Now, Madame et Monsieur, I want you to think carefully before you answer this question. Have you, since you were on this train, seen anyone that you recognised?"

They stared at Poirot, and then both replied with the same answer. "No, no one at all."

"What about Princess McGonagall-Dragomiroff, and your brother, the Colonel?" Poirot asked the Count. 

The Count smiled graciously before replying. 

"Oh! Them. We know them, of course. I thought you meant someone—anyone from—from that time."  
"So I did. Now think carefully. Some years have passed, remember. The person might have altered his or her appearance."

William and Fleur pondered deeply. Then the Count said: "No—I am sure—there is no one."

"Madame la Countess—you were a young lady when you arrived at the household—did you have no one to attend to you as you got older?"  
"Oh! Yes, we had a dragon, a governess to Lily, and secretary to Ginny and myself combined. She was English—or rather Scotch; a short, fat, black-haired woman."

"What was her name?"

The Countess paused, and then spoke rather expressively, her voice going hoarse. "Miss Anne Freebody!"

"Was Miss Freebody young or old?" Poirot asked delicately. 

"She seemed frightfully old to me. But I suppose she couldn't have been more than thirty at the time of Lily's death."

"And you are certain, quite certain, Madame, that you have recognised no one on the train?"

She replied as earnestly as possible: "No one, Monsieur. No one at all." 

"And the same goes for you Monsieur le Count?" Poirot pressed. 

"No, nobody at all, sir." Count William Weasley replied.

As the three sat at the table in the far corner, near the door, Poirot turned to the window. Silence followed. 

Constantine and Bouc had been watching the whole interaction from their own table, and could only breathe, scared to speak.

Moonlight now reflected on the snow and ice outside of the carriage. Poirot thought it were as if a layer of diamonds surrounded the luxury train. 

Poirot was also thinking of a dead toddler, and how far one might go to avenge such a tragedy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Roles Characters Fill:
> 
> Hercule Poirot - As Himself.
> 
> Dr. Constantine - As Himself.
> 
> The Conductor - As Himself.
> 
> M. Bouc. - As Himself.
> 
> Hermione Granger - As Mary Hermione Debenham.
> 
> Ron Weasley - As Colonel Arbuthnot.
> 
> William 'Bill' Weasley - As Count Andrenyi.
> 
> Fleur Delacour - As Countess Helena Maria Andrenyi (nee Goldenberg).
> 
> Molly Weasley - As Mrs. Hubbard/Linda Arden (Goldenberg).
> 
> Draco Malfoy - As Hector MacQueen.
> 
> Minerva McGonagall - As Princess Natalia Dragomiroff.
> 
> Sybil Trelawney - As Hildegarde Schmidt.
> 
> Luna Lovegood - As Greta Ohlsson.
> 
> Remus Lupin - As Cyrus Bethman Hardman.
> 
> Neville Longbottom - As Edward Henry Masterman.
> 
> Tom Riddle/Lord Voldemort - As Ratchett/Casetti: The Murder Victim.
> 
> Nymphadora Tonks - As the nursemaid, Susanne (DECEASED).
> 
> Harry Potter - As Colonel Armstrong (DECEASED).
> 
> Ginevra Potter - As Sonia Armstrong (DECEASED).
> 
> Lily Luna Potter - As Daisy Armstrong (DECEASED).


	28. The Unravelling Begins

When the Count and Countess had departed, Poirot re-joined Bouc and Constantine.

"You see," he said "we make progress." Poirot said, smiling.

"Excellent work," said M. Bouc cordially. "On my part, I should never have dreamed of suspecting Count and Countess Delacour. I will admit I thought them quite hors de combat. I suppose there is no doubt that they committed the crime? It is rather sad. Still, the British, they will not hang them. There are extenuating circumstances. A few years' imprisonment—that will be all."

"In fact you are quite certain of their guilt?" Poirot asked, eyebrows raised in surprise. 

"My dear friend—surely there is no doubt of it? I thought your reassuring manner was only to smooth things over till we are dug out of the snow and the police take charge."

"You do not believe the Count's positive assertion—on his word of honour—that his wife at least, is innocent?"

"Mon cher—naturally—what else could he say? He adores his wife. He wants to save her! He tells his lie very well—quite in the grand seigneur manner. But what else than a lie could it be?"

"Well, you know, I had the preposterous idea that it might be the truth."

"No, no. The handkerchief, remember. The handkerchief clinches the matter."

"Oh, I am not so sure about the handkerchief. You remember, I always told you that there were two possibilities as to the ownership of the handkerchief."

"All the same—" M. Bouc broke off. The door at the end had opened.

Princess McGonagall-Dragomiroff entered the dining-car. She came straight to them and all three men rose to their feet.

She spoke to Poirot, ignoring the others.

"I believe, Monsieur," she said, "that you have a handkerchief of mine."

Poirot shot a glance of triumph at the other two.

"Is this it, Madame?" He produced the square of fine cambric, with a large M decorating the centre.

"That is it. It has my initial."

M. Bouc was somewhat taken aback. There was something about this indomitable old lady which made him feel flustered and uncomfortable.

Poirot spoke. "You did not tell us that this handkerchief was yours at the inquiry this morning."

"You Monsieur, did not ask me," Minerva said drily in response.

"Pray be seated, Madame," said Poirot.

She sighed. "I may as well, I suppose." 

She sat down.

"You need not make a long business of this, Messieurs. Your next question will be—'How did my handkerchief come to be lying by a murdered man's body!' My reply to that is that I have no idea."

"You have really no idea?" Poirot asked, half-inclined to laugh.  
"None whatever." Minerva replied, smiling gently. 

"You will excuse me, Madame, but how much can we rely upon the truthfulness of your replies?" Poirot said the words very softly.

Princess Minerva McGonagall-Dragomiroff answered contemptuously. "I suppose you mean because I did not tell you that The Count was Mrs. Potter's brother?"

"In fact you deliberately lied to us in the matter, didn't you Madame, truly the personality of a cat."

"Certainly. I would do the same again. His family are my family, so to speak. I believe, Messieurs, in loyalty—to one's friends, and one's family, and indeed one's cast."

"You do not believe in doing your utmost to further the ends of justice?" Poirot raised. 

The Princess laughed before replying. "Ha! In this case I consider that justice—strict justice—has been done."

Poirot leaned forward. "You see my difficulty, Madame. In this matter of the handkerchief, even, am I to believe you? Or are you shielding your 'family' further?"

"Oh! I see what you mean." Her face broke into another grim smile. "Well, Messieurs, this statement of mine can be easily proved. I will give you the address of the people in Paris who make my handkerchiefs. You have only to show them the one in question and they will inform you that it was made to my order over a year ago. The handkerchief is mine, Messieurs."

Minerva rose, giving the impression she would not even comply to a response to her next statement.

"Have you anything further you wish to ask me?"

"Oh yes. Your maid, Madame, did she recognise this handkerchief when we showed it to her this morning?"

"She must have done so. She saw it and said nothing? Ah, well, that shows that she too can be loyal."

With a slight inclination of her head, Princess Minerva McGonagall-Dragomiroff passed out of the dining-car.

"So that was it," murmured Poirot softly. "I noticed just a trifling moment when I asked the maid if she knew to whom the handkerchief belonged. She was uncertain whether or not to admit that it was her mistress's. But how does that fit in with that strange central idea of mine? Yes, it might well be."

"Ah!" said M. Bouc with a characteristic gesture. "She is a terrible old lady, that!"

"Oh, I don't know, I feel she could be a likeable creature in different circumstances." Poirot murmured.  
"Could she have murdered Riddle?" Poirot then asked of the doctor.

Constantine shook his head. "Those blows—the ones delivered with great force penetrating the muscle—never, never could anyone with so frail a physique inflict them."

"But the feebler ones?" Poirot pushed.  
"Oh, yes, the feebler ones, yes." The Doctor replied, nodding emphatically. 

"I am thinking," said Poirot, "of the incident this morning when I said to her that the strength was in her will rather than in her arm. It was in the nature of a trap, that remark. I wanted to see if she would look down at her right or her left arm. She did neither. She looked at them both. But she made a strange reply. She said, 'No, I have no strength in these. I do not know whether to be sorry or glad.' A curious remark that. It confirms me in my belief about the crime."

"It did not settle the point about the left-handedness." Bouc quietly let out.

"No. By the way, did you notice that the Count keeps his handkerchief in his right-hand breast pocket?"

M. Bouc shook his head. His mind reverted to the astonishing revelations of the last half-hour. He murmured: "Lies—and again lies. It amazes me, the number of lies we had told to us this morning."

"There are more still to discover," said Poirot cheerfully.

"You think so?" Bouc asked, pain in his voice. 

"Oh- I know so. And I shall be very much disappointed if it is not so."

"Such duplicity is terrible," said M. Bouc. "But it seems to please you," he added reproachfully.

"It has this advantage," said Poirot. "If you confront anyone who has lied with the truth, he will usually admit it—often out of sheer surprise. It is only necessary to guess right to produce your effect. That is the only way to conduct this case. I select each passenger in turn, consider his or her evidence, and say to myself, 'If so and so is lying, on what point is he lying, and what is the reason for the lie?' And I answer, 'If he is lying—if, you mark—it could only be for such a reason and on such a point.' We have done that once very successfully with the Count and Countess. We shall now proceed to try the same method on several other persons."

"And supposing, my friend, that your guess happens to be wrong?" Bouc asked this delicately, so as not to sound mocking. 

"Then one person, at any rate, will be completely freed from suspicion." Poirot answered, head held high. 

"Ah!—a process of elimination." Constantine excitedly let out. 

"Exactly." Poirot nodded. 

"So whom do we tackle next?" Constantine added. 

"Tonight, we sleep. Tomorrow morning, we are going to tackle those pukka sahibs, the Colonel Weasley, and Miss Hermione Granger."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Roles Characters Fill:
> 
> Hercule Poirot - As Himself.
> 
> Dr. Constantine - As Himself.
> 
> The Conductor - As Himself.
> 
> M. Bouc. - As Himself.
> 
> Hermione Granger - As Mary Hermione Debenham.
> 
> Ron Weasley - As Colonel Arbuthnot.
> 
> William 'Bill' Weasley - As Count Andrenyi.
> 
> Fleur Delacour - As Countess Helena Maria Andrenyi (nee Goldenberg).
> 
> Molly Weasley - As Mrs. Hubbard/Linda Arden (Goldenberg).
> 
> Draco Malfoy - As Hector MacQueen.
> 
> Minerva McGonagall - As Princess Natalia Dragomiroff.
> 
> Sybil Trelawney - As Hildegarde Schmidt.
> 
> Luna Lovegood - As Greta Ohlsson.
> 
> Remus Lupin - As Cyrus Bethman Hardman.
> 
> Neville Longbottom - As Edward Henry Masterman.
> 
> Tom Riddle/Lord Voldemort - As Ratchett/Casetti: The Murder Victim.
> 
> Nymphadora Tonks - As the nursemaid, Susanne (DECEASED).
> 
> Harry Potter - As Colonel Armstrong (DECEASED).
> 
> Ginevra Potter - As Sonia Armstrong (DECEASED).
> 
> Lily Luna Potter - As Daisy Armstrong (DECEASED).


	29. The Colonel and The Governess

Poirot hardly slept that night, he was busy jotting numerous theories onto paper, it was far messier than the sheets he had previously written for Constantine and Bouc, but there was method to it. Theories, persons of interest, how the case in his mind, would eventually tie neatly together. 

After breakfast on the second day of the train being trapped, the dining-car was once again cleared, Bouc, Constantine, and Poirot reunited. 

Colonel Weasley was clearly annoyed at being summoned to the dining-car for a second interview, especially at an early time of the morning. 

The whole of the restaurant car was brightly illuminated, the snow casting sunlight everywhere outside. 

The Colonel's face wore a most forbidding expression as he sat down and said: "Well?"

"All my apologies for troubling you a second time," said Poirot. "But there is still some information that I think you might be able to give us."  
"Indeed? I hardly think so."

"To begin with, you see this pipe-cleaner?"  
"Yes."  
"Is it one of yours?"  
"Don't know. I don't put a private mark on them, you know."

"Are you aware, Colonel Weasley, that you are the only man amongst the passengers on this train who smokes a pipe?"  
"In that case it probably is one of mine."  
"Do you know where it was found?"  
"Not the least idea."

"It was found next to the body of the murdered man."

Colonel Weasley raised his eyebrows.

"Can you tell us, Colonel Weasley, how it is likely to have got there?"  
"If you mean, did I drop it there myself, no, I didn't."  
"Did you go into Mr. Riddle's compartment at any time?"  
"I never even spoke to the man."

"You never spoke to him and you did not murder him?"

The Colonel's eyebrows went up again sardonically.

"If I had, I should hardly be likely to acquaint you with the fact. As a matter of fact I didn't murder the fellow."

"Ah, well, nor did your brother apparently," murmured Poirot. He then raised his voice "It is of no consequence."

"I beg your pardon?"

"I said Colonel, that it was of no consequence."

"Oh!" Weasley looked taken aback. He eyed Poirot uneasily.

"Because, you see," continued the little man, "the pipe-cleaner, it is of no importance. I can myself think of eleven other excellent explanations of its presence."

Colonel Weasley still stared at him.

"What I really wished to see you about was quite another matter," went on Poirot. "Miss Granger may have told you, perhaps, that I overheard some words spoken to you at the station of Newcastle?"

The Colonel did not reply.

"She said, 'Not now. When it's all over. When it's behind us!' Do you know to what those words referred?"

"I am sorry, Mister Poirot, but I must refuse to answer that question." The Colonel said this in a much softer voice than usual. 

"Pourquoi?" Poirot asked.

The Colonel then said stiffly, "I suggest that you ask Hermione herself for the meaning of those words."  
"I have done so." Poirot said.  
"And Hermione refused to tell you?"  
"Yes, Ronald, she refused indeed."

"Then I should think it would have been perfectly plain—even to you—that my lips are sealed."  
"You will not give away a lady's secret?"  
"You can put it that way, if you like."  
"Miss Granger told me that they referred to a private matter of her own."

"Then why not accept her word for it?"  
"Because, Colonel Weasley, Miss Granger is what one might call a highly suspicious character."  
"Nonsense," said the Colonel with some warmth.  
"It is not nonsense."

"You have nothing whatever against her!" Colonel Weasley exclaimed, finally exasperated.

Poirot gave the Colonel a smile, and bored into him with his eyes.

"Oh? Not the fact that Miss Granger was governess in the Potter household at the time of the kidnapping of little Lily?"

There was a minute's dead silence.

Poirot nodded his head gently. "You see," he said. "We know more than you think. If Miss Granger is completely innocent, why did she conceal that fact? Why did she tell me that she had never been in America?"

The Colonel cleared his throat. "Aren't you possibly making a mistake?"

"I am making no mistake. Why did Miss Granger lie to me?"

Colonel Weasley shrugged his shoulders. "You had better ask her. I still think that you are wrong."

Poirot raised his voice and called. One of the restaurant attendants came from the far end of the car. "Go and ask the English lady in No. 8 if she will be good enough to come here."

"Bien, Monsieur." The attendant departed. 

The four men remaining sat in silence. Colonel Weasley's face looked as though it were carved out of wood, rigid and impassive.

The attendant returned. "The lady is just coming, Monsieur."  
"Thank you." Poirot replied. 

A minute or two later Mary Debenham entered the dining-car.

She wore a sweeping gown over her clothes. Her face was made up simplistically, dark red lipstick, no foundation. Her intelligent head was thrown back as though in defiance. The sweep of her hair back from her face, and the curve of her nostril suggested the figure-head of a ship plunging gallantly into a rough sea.

In that moment Hermione Jean Debenham Granger was beautiful. A pity, Poirot thought, in these circumstances. 

Her eyes went to Colonel Weasley for a minute—just a minute. He flushed a little at the sight of her. 

She said to Poirot, "You wished to see me?"

"I wished to ask you, Mademoiselle, why you lied to us yesterday morning?"  
"Lied to you? I don't quite know what you mean." Hermione replied, feigning innocence. 

"You concealed the fact that at the time of the Potter tragedy you were actually living in the house. That you were the one the baby was taken from. Indeed, you told me that you had never been in America."

Hermione flinched for a moment and then recovered herself.

"Yes," she said. "That is true."  
"No, Mademoiselle, it was false."  
"You misunderstand me. I mean that it is true that I lied to you."

"Ah, you admit it?"  
Her rouged lips curved into a smile. "Certainly, since you have found me out."  
"You are at least frank, Mademoiselle."  
"There does not seem anything else for me to be."

"Well, of course, that is true. And now, Mademoiselle, may I ask you the reason for these evasions?"  
"I should have thought the reason leapt to the eye, M. Poirot."  
"It does not leap to mine, Mademoiselle."

She said in a quiet even voice with a trace of hardness in it, "I have my living to get, my life to get on with."

"You mean—?" Poirot began to ask.

She raised her eyes and looked him full in the face. "How much do you know, Poirot, of the fight to get and keep decent employment? The fight for a woman to live her life peacefully? Do you think that a girl who had been detained in connection with a murder case, whose name and perhaps photograph were reproduced in the English papers—do you think that any nice ordinary people would want to engage with me then?"

"I do not see why not—if no blame attached to you."

"Oh, blame—it is not blame—it is the publicity! So far, Poirot, I have succeeded in life. I graduated top of my school. I have made brilliant friends. I have had well-paid, pleasant posts. I was not  
going to risk the position I had attained when no good end could have been served."

"I will venture to suggest, Mademoiselle, that I would have been the best judge of that, not you."

Hermione shrugged her shoulders.

"For instance, you could have helped me in the matter of identification."  
"What do you mean?" Hermione asked. 

"Is it possible, Mademoiselle, that you did not recognise in the Countess Delacour, Mrs. Potter's sister-in-law whom you aided in New York, or indeed her husband, the Colonel's brother?"

Hermione paused, and challenged Poirot's eyes with her own. Her deep brown irises had great power and tenacity.

"Countess Delacour? No." She shook her head. "It may seem extraordinary to you—but I did not recognise her. She was not fully grown up, you see, when I knew her. That was over three years ago. It is true that the Countess reminded me of someone; it puzzled me. But she looks so foreign—I never connected her with the lady. I only glanced at her casually when coming into the restaurant car, and I noticed her clothes more than her face." She smiled faintly. "Women do! And then—well—I had my own preoccupations."

"You will not tell me your secret, these preoccupations, Mademoiselle?" Poirot's voice was very gentle and persuasive.

Hermione said in a low voice, "I can't—I can't."

And suddenly, without warning, the beautiful and intelligent Hermione Granger broke down, dropping her face down upon her outstretched arms and crying as though her heart would break.

The Colonel sprang up and stood awkwardly beside her. "I—look here—" He stopped and turning round scowled fiercely at Poirot. 

"I'll break every bone in your damned body, you bloody little whippersnapper," he said.

"Monsieur," protested M. Bouc.

Weasley ignored Poirot and turned back to the woman he loved. "Hermione love—for God's sake—"

She sprang up rather hysterically. All coolness gone. "It's nothing! I'm all right. You don't need me any more, do you, Poirot? I would say you already know everything. If you do need me, you must come and find me. Oh, what an idiot—what an idiot I'm making of myself!" She hurried out of the car.

Colonel Ronald Weasley, before following her, turned once more on Poirot.

"Hermio- Miss Granger's got nothing to do with this business—nothing, do you hear? And if she's worried and interfered with, you'll have me to deal with." 

He strode out.

"I like to see an angry Englishman," said Poirot. "They are very amusing. The more emotional they feel, the less command they have of language."

But M. Bouc was not interested in the emotional reactions of Englishmen. He was overcome by admiration of his friend.

"Mon cher, vous êtes épatant!" he cried. "Another miraculous guess."

"It is incredible how you think of these things," said Dr. Constantine admiringly.

"Oh, I claim no credit this time. It was not a guess. Countess Delacour practically told me. You remember, I asked her about her governess or companion? I had already decided in my mind that if Hermione were mixed up in the matter, she must have figured in the household in some such professional capacity, aside from being friends with them."

"Yes, but the Countess Delacour described a totally different person?" Bouc queried. 

"Exactly. A short and overweight dragon-like woman- Scottish- and with black hair—in fact, the exact opposite in every respect of Miss Granger, so much so as to be quite remarkable. But then the Countess had to invent a name for her character quickly, and there it was that the unconscious association of ideas gave her away. She said, 'Miss Anne Freebody', you remember."

"Yes, and?" Constantine asked confusedly. 

"Eh bien, you may not know it, but there is a shop in London that was called until recently Debenham & Freebody. With the middle name Debenham running in her head, the Countess clutches at another name quickly, and the first that comes is Freebody. Naturally I understood immediately."

"So, more lies then. Why did she do it?" Bouc said calmly, but bitterly. 

"Possibly more loyalty. It makes things a little difficult." Poirot replied.

"Ma foi!" said M. Bouc with violence. "But does everybody on this train tell lies?"

"That," said Poirot, "is what we are about to find out." Poirot smiled gently.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Roles Characters Fill:
> 
> Hercule Poirot - As Himself.
> 
> Dr. Constantine - As Himself.
> 
> The Conductor - As Himself.
> 
> M. Bouc. - As Himself.
> 
> Hermione Granger - As Mary Hermione Debenham.
> 
> Ron Weasley - As Colonel Arbuthnot.
> 
> William 'Bill' Weasley - As Count Andrenyi.
> 
> Fleur Delacour - As Countess Helena Maria Andrenyi (nee Goldenberg).
> 
> Molly Weasley - As Mrs. Hubbard/Linda Arden (Goldenberg).
> 
> Draco Malfoy - As Hector MacQueen.
> 
> Minerva McGonagall - As Princess Natalia Dragomiroff.
> 
> Sybil Trelawney - As Hildegarde Schmidt.
> 
> Luna Lovegood - As Greta Ohlsson.
> 
> Remus Lupin - As Cyrus Bethman Hardman.
> 
> Neville Longbottom - As Edward Henry Masterman.
> 
> Tom Riddle/Lord Voldemort - As Ratchett/Casetti: The Murder Victim.
> 
> Nymphadora Tonks - As the nursemaid, Susanne (DECEASED).
> 
> Harry Potter - As Colonel Armstrong (DECEASED).
> 
> Ginevra Potter - As Sonia Armstrong (DECEASED).
> 
> Lily Luna Potter - As Daisy Armstrong (DECEASED).


	30. Further Revelations

"Nothing would surprise me now," said M. Bouc. "Nothing! Even if everybody in the train proved to have been in, or connected to, the Potter household, I should not express surprise."

"That is a very profound remark," said Poirot. "Would you like to see what Miss Lovegood, has to say for herself?"

"You are going to make another of these famous guesses of yours?"

"Precisely." Poirot replied. 

"It is really a most extraordinary case," said Constantine.

"No, it is most natural." Poirot said plainly. 

M. Bouc flung up his arms in comic despair. "If this is what you call natural, mon ami—" Words failed him.

"Pietro," called Poirot. The dining-car attendant came at a run, pleased Poirot had finally learned his name.

"The No. 8 again—this time the sheep-like lady."  
"Bien, Monsieur." Pietro replied. 

"Another?" cried M. Bouc. "Ah, no—it is not possible. I tell you it is not possible."

"Mon cher—we have to know. Even if in the end everybody on the train proves to have had a motive for killing Riddle, we have to know. Once we know, we can settle once for all where the guilt lies."

"My head is spinning," groaned M. Bouc.

Luna Lovegood was ushered in sympathetically by the attendant. She was weeping bitterly.

She collapsed on the seat facing Poirot and wept steadily into a large blue handkerchief.

"Now do not distress yourself, Mademoiselle. Do not distress yourself," Poirot patted her on the shoulder. "Just a few little words of truth, that is all. You were present in the Potter house at the time of the kidnapping of little Lily Potter?"

"It is true—it is true," wept the woman, her thinly-veiled Scandinavian accent gone, and replaced by standard English. 

"Ah, that girl was an angel—a little sweet trustful angel. She knew nothing but kindness and love— that is all she should have ever known. But no! She was taken away by that wicked man—cruelly treated— and her poor mother- Ginny— and Harry gone too! My friends! And then other little one who never lived at all. You cannot understand—you cannot know—if you had been there as I was—if you had seen the whole terrible tragedy! I ought to have told you the truth about myself this morning. But I was afraid—afraid. I did so rejoice that that evil man was dead—that he could not any more kill or torture little children. Ah! I cannot speak—I have no words. ..." 

She wept with more vehemence than ever.

Poirot continued to pat her gently on the shoulder. "There—there—I comprehend—I comprehend everything—everything, I tell you. I will ask you no more questions. It is enough that you have admitted what I know to be the truth. I understand, I tell you."

By now inarticulate with sobs, Luna Lovegood rose and groped her way blindly towards the door. As she reached it she collided with a man coming in.

It was the valet—Neville Longbottom.

He came straight up to Poirot and spoke in his usual quiet, and slightly unemotional voice.

"I hope I'm not intruding, sir. I thought it best to come along at once, sir, and tell you the truth. I was Harry Potter's batman in the Great War, sir, and both before and afterwards I was his close friend. I had visited him many times in New York. I'm afraid I concealed that fact this morning. It was very wrong of me, sir, and I thought I'd better come and make a clean breast of it. But I hope, sir, that you're not suspecting Remus Lupin in any way. Lupin, sir, wouldn't hurt a fly. And I can swear positively that he never left the compartment all last night. So, you see, sir, he couldn't have done it. He's a very gentle creature. He's my friend. I should never have pretended otherwise."

He stopped.

Poirot looked steadily at him. "Is that all you have to say?"  
"That is all, sir." Neville said. 

He paused; then, as Poirot did not speak, he made an apologetic little bow and after a momentary hesitation left the dining-car in the same quiet unobtrusive fashion as he had come.

"This," said Dr. Constantine, "is more wildly improbable than any roman policier I have ever read."

"I agree," said M. Bouc. "Of the eleven passengers, seven have now been proved to have had a connection with the Potter case. What next, I ask you? Or should I say, who next?"

"I can almost give you the answer to your question," said Poirot.

Poirot had by this time requested the dining-car attendant to fetch Remus Lupin. Lupin shot slightly nervous glances from side to side like a trapped animal as he entered the carriage.

"Here comes our Order operative, Mr. Lupin." Poirot murmured.

"Is he, too, coming to confess?" Bouc whispered to Poirot. 

Before Poirot could reply the American had reached their table. He cocked an alert eye at them and sitting down he spoke out: "Just exactly what's up on this train? It seems entirely nonsensical to me."

Poirot twinkled at him.

"Are you quite sure, Mr. Lupin, that you yourself were not the gardener at the Potter home?"

"They didn't have a gardener," replied Mr. Lupin literally.

"Or the butler?" Poirot joked. 

"Gentleman. I haven't got the fancy manner for a place like that. No, I never had any connection with the Potter house—but I'm beginning to believe I'm about the only one on this train who hadn't!"

"It is certainly a little surprising," said Poirot mildly.

"C'est rigolo," burst from M. Bouc.

"Have you any ideas of your own about the crime, Mr. Lupin?" inquired Poirot.

"No, sir. I don't know how to figure it out. They can't all be in on it—but which one is the guilty party is beyond me. How did you get wise to all this? That's what I want to know."

"I just guessed." Poirot said. 

"Then, believe me, you're a pretty good guesser. Yes, I'll tell everyone you're the brightest detective in the world."

Mr. Lupin leaned back and looked at Poirot admiringly.

"You'll excuse me," he said, "but no one would believe it to look at you. I take off my hat to you. I do indeed."

"You are too kind, Remus."

"Not at all. I've got to hand it to you."

"All the same," said Poirot, "the problem is not yet quite solved. Can you say with authority that we know who killed Riddle?"

"Count me out," said Lupin. "I'm not saying anything at all. I'm just full of natural admiration. What about the other two you haven't had a guess at yet? The old American dame, and the maid?  
I suppose we can take it that they're the only innocent parties on the train?"

"Unless," said Poirot, smiling, "we can fit them into our little collection?"

"Well, nothing in the world would surprise me now," said Mr. Lupin with quiet resignation. 

"Mr. Lupin, you will freely admit that you worked with Neville as a teacher?" Poirot suddenly said, surprising the man opposite. 

"Yes, sir. In fact, I taught him once." Lupin admitted. 

"And indeed you taught most of the younger generation on this train, as well as Mr. Potter and his wife? At Hogwarts, hm?"

"Yes." Lupin said. The game was up.

"Ah! mon cher, this would be indeed stretching coincidence a little too far," said M. Bouc, ignoring Lupin's presence. "They cannot all be in it."

Poirot looked at him. "You do not understand," he said. "You do not understand at all. Tell me, do you know who killed Riddle?"

"Do you?" countered M. Bouc.

Poirot nodded. "Oh, yes," he said. "I have known for some time. It is so clear that I wonder you have not seen it also." 

All gathered stared at Poirot curiously. 

Poirot was silent a minute. Then he said: "If you will be so good, Mr. Lupin, as to assemble every one of your little friends in the bar-car next door. There are two possible solutions of this case. I want to lay them both before you all."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Roles Characters Fill:
> 
> Hercule Poirot - As Himself.
> 
> Dr. Constantine - As Himself.
> 
> The Conductor - As Himself.
> 
> M. Bouc. - As Himself.
> 
> Hermione Granger - As Mary Hermione Debenham.
> 
> Ron Weasley - As Colonel Arbuthnot.
> 
> William 'Bill' Weasley - As Count Andrenyi.
> 
> Fleur Delacour - As Countess Helena Maria Andrenyi (nee Goldenberg).
> 
> Molly Weasley - As Mrs. Hubbard/Linda Arden (Goldenberg).
> 
> Draco Malfoy - As Hector MacQueen.
> 
> Minerva McGonagall - As Princess Natalia Dragomiroff.
> 
> Sybil Trelawney - As Hildegarde Schmidt.
> 
> Luna Lovegood - As Greta Ohlsson.
> 
> Remus Lupin - As Cyrus Bethman Hardman.
> 
> Neville Longbottom - As Edward Henry Masterman.
> 
> Tom Riddle/Lord Voldemort - As Ratchett/Casetti: The Murder Victim.
> 
> Nymphadora Tonks - As the nursemaid, Susanne (DECEASED).
> 
> Harry Potter - As Colonel Armstrong (DECEASED).
> 
> Ginevra Potter - As Sonia Armstrong (DECEASED).
> 
> Lily Luna Potter - As Daisy Armstrong (DECEASED).


	31. The Truth

The passengers came crowding into the bar car and took their seats round the tables, and the bar itself. 

They all wore more or less the same expression, one of expectancy mingled with apprehension. Luna was still weeping, and Mrs. Hubbard was comforting her.

Molly was still playing her role with ridiculous dedication. "Now you must just take a hold on yourself, my dear. Luna, everything's going to be perfectly all right. You mustn't lose your grip on yourself. If one of us is a nasty murderer, we know quite well it isn't you. Why, anyone would be crazy even to think of such a thing. You sit here, and I'll stay right by you—and don't you worry any-" 

Her voice died away as Poirot stood up in front of all of them in the doorway.

One of the Wagon Lit conductors- Pierre Michel was hovering in the opposite doorway. "You permit that I stay, Monsieur?"

"Certainly, Michel." Poirot said. 

Detective Hercule Poirot then cleared his throat.

"Messieurs et mesdames, I will speak in English since I think all of you know that language. We are here to investigate the death of Tom Marvolo Riddle— Lord Voldemort. There are two possible solutions of the crime. I shall put them both before you, and I shall ask M. Bouc, and Dr. Constantine here to judge which solution is the right one".

Everyone around the room nodded. 

"Now you all know the facts of the case. Mr. Riddle was found stabbed yesterday morning. He was supposedly last known to be alive at twenty three minutes past twelve the night before when he spoke to the Wagon Lit conductor through the door. A watch in his pyjama pocket was found to be badly dented, and it had stopped at a quarter past one. Dr. Constantine, who examined the body when found, puts the time of death as having been between midnight and two in the morning. At midnight, as you all know, the train had ran into a snowdrift. After that time it was impossible for anyone to leave the train."

"The evidence of Mr. Lupin, who is a member of The Order of The Phoenix—" (Several heads turned, to look at Lupin.)— "shows that a known enemy was going to target Riddle. However, due to the snowdrift, we were therefore forced to the conclusion that the murderer is to be found among the occupants of the train".

"That, I will say, was our theory."

"Comment?" ejaculated M. Bouc, startled.

"But I will put before you first an alternative theory. It is very simple. Mr. Riddle had this certain enemy whom he feared. He gave Mr. Lupin a description of this enemy and told him that the attempt, if made at all, would most probably be made after this journey".

"Now I put it to you, ladies and gentlemen, that Mr. Riddle knew a good deal more than he told. The enemy, as Mr. Riddle expected, joined the train at Edinburgh, or else at Rannoch by the door left open by Colonel Weasley and Mr. Malfoy, who had just descended to the platform. He had a suit of Wagon Lit uniform, which he wore over his ordinary clothes, and a pass-key which enabled him to gain access to Mr. Riddle's compartment in spite of the door's being locked. Mr. Riddle was under the influence of a sleeping draught which he chose to take. This man stabbed him with great ferocity and left the compartment through the communicating door leading to Mrs. Hubbard's compartment—"

"That's so," said Molly Hubbard, nodding her head emphatically.

"He thrust the dagger he had used into Mrs. Hubbard's sponge-bag in passing. Without knowing it, he lost a button of his uniform. Then he slipped out of the compartment and along the corridor. He hastily thrust the uniform into a suitcase in an empty compartment, and a few minutes later, dressed in ordinary clothes, he left the train just before it started off, using the same means for egress—the unlocked door."

Everybody gasped.

"What about that watch?" demanded Bouc.

"There you have the explanation of the whole thing. Mr. Riddle had omitted to put his watch back an hour as he should have done when arriving in England. His watch still registered Central European time, which is one hour ahead of Greenwich Morning time. It was a quarter past twelve when Mr. Riddle's murderer left the train—not a quarter past one."

"But it is absurd, that explanation!" cried M. Bouc. "What of the voice that spoke from the compartment at twenty-three minutes past twelve? It was either the voice of Riddle—or else that of his murderer."

"Not necessarily. It might have been—well—a third person. One who had gone in to speak to Riddle and found him dead. He rang the bell to summon the conductor; then, as you express it, the wind rose in him—he was afraid of being accused of the crime, and he spoke pretending to be Riddle."

"C'est possible," admitted M. Bouc grudgingly.

Poirot looked at Mrs. Hubbard. "Yes, Madame, you were going to say—"

"Well, I don't quite know what I was going to say. Do you think I forgot to put my watch back too?"

"No, Madame. I think you could have heard the man pass through—but unconsciously, at a quarter past midnight. An hour later you had a nightmare of a man being in your compartment and woke up with a start and rang for the conductor."

"Well, I suppose that's possible," admitted Mrs. Hubbard, distantly, and confused.

Princess McGonagall-Dragomiroff was looking at Poirot with a very direct glance. "How do you explain the evidence of my maid, Monsieur?"

"Very simply, Madame. Your maid recognised the handkerchief I showed her as yours. She somewhat clumsily tried to shield you. She did encounter the man, but earlier—while the train was at Rannoch station. She pretended to have seen him at a much later time, with a confused idea of giving you a water-tight alibi."

Minerva bowed her head, her voice was now gentle, and friendly. "You have thought of everything, Monsieur. I very much admire you."

There was a silence.

Then everyone jumped as Dr. Constantine suddenly hit a table a blow with his fist. 

"But no," he said. "No, no, and again no! That is an explanation that will not hold water. It is deficient in a dozen minor points. The crime was not committed so— Poirot must know that perfectly well."

Poirot turned a curious glance on him. "I see," he said, "I shall have to give you my second solution. But do not abandon this one too abruptly. You may agree with it later."

He turned back again to face the others. This new theory, was the real one. 

"There is another possible solution of the crime. This is how I arrived at it."

"When I had heard all the evidence, I leaned back and shut my eyes, and began to think. Certain points presented themselves to me as worthy of attention. I enumerated these points to my two colleagues. Some I have already elucidated—such as a grease spot on a passport, and so on. I will run over the points that remain. The first and most important is a remark made to me by M. Bouc in the restaurant car at lunch on the day we left York—to the effect that the company assembled was interesting because it was so varied— representing as it did all classes and nationalities."

"I agreed with him, but when this particular point came into my mind, I tried to imagine whether such an assembly was ever likely to be collected under any other conditions. And the answer I made to myself was—only in America. In America there might be a place composed of just such varied nationalities— an English governess and Colonel, a Scandinavian animal expert, a lady's-maid, members of French and other aristocracies, and so on."

That led me to my scheme of 'guessing'—that is, casting each person for a certain part in the Potter drama much as a producer casts a play. Well, that gave me an extremely interesting and satisfactory result. I had also examined in my own mind each separate person's evidence, with some curious results. Take first the evidence of Mr. Malfoy. My first interview with him yesterday was entirely satisfactory. But in my second he made rather a curious remark. I had described to him the finding of a note mentioning the Potter case."

"He said, 'But surely—' and then paused and went on, 'I mean—that was rather careless of the old man.' Now I could feel that that was not what he had started out to say. Supposing what he had meant to say was 'But surely that was burnt!' In which case, Malfoy knew of the note and of its destruction—in other words, he was either the murderer or an accomplice of the murderer. Very good."

"Then the valet. He said his master was in the habit of taking a sleeping draught when travelling by train. That might be true, but would Riddle have taken one that night? The weapon of which you are surely all aware of under his pillow gave the lie to that statement. Riddle intended to be on the alert all-night. Whatever narcotic was administered to him must have been given without his knowledge. By whom? Obviously by Malfoy or the valet. This crime was done the muggle way!" 

"Now, not only that, but I will remind you all that Mr. Longbottom was in the York-Scotland coach! Not the London-Scotland coach! And what am I told by Pierre Michel and Neville? That they saw each other when Neville requested water to take a painkiller- but- you people! Pierre Michel did not attend to that coach! His colleague did!" 

"Ah! You are right!" M. Bouc said, in absolute shock and realisation. 

Poirot went on, ignoring his friend. 

"Now we come to the evidence of Mr. Lupin. I believed all that he told me about his own identity, but when it came to the actual methods he had employed to guard Mr. Riddle, his story was neither more nor less than absurd. The only way to have protected Riddle effectively was to pass the night actually in his compartment or in some spot where he could watch the door. The one thing that his evidence did show plainly was that apparently no one in any other part of the train could possibly have murdered Riddle. That seemed to me a rather curious and inexplicable fact, and I put it aside to think over. But- the fact that the man slept! On the job? Do you really think I would believe a man of the Order, a respectable operative, would be so clumsy as that if good in their intentions?"

"Now. You probably all know by now of the few words I overheard between Miss Granger and Colonel Weasley. The interesting thing to my mind was the fact that Colonel Weasley called her Hermione and was clearly on terms of intimacy with her. But the Colonel was supposed to have met her only a few days or so previously. And I know Englishmen of the Colonel's type—even if he had fallen in love with the young lady at first sight, he would have advanced slowly and with decorum or nervousness, not rushing things. Therefore I concluded that Colonel Weasley and Miss Granger were in reality well acquainted and were for some reason pretending to be strangers. Well! That conversation- I know it now! Ronald had chosen to propose to his love, and in amongst a murder plan! She was overwhelmed- 'not now, not now'!"

Hermione and Ron looked like they might cry.

"Another small point was Miss Granger's easy familiarity with the term 'trunk-call' for a transatlantic telephone call. Yet Miss Granger had told me that she had never been in the States." 

"To pass to another witness. Mrs. Hubbard had told us that lying in bed she had been unable to see whether the communicating door was bolted or not, and so had asked Miss Lovegood to see for her. Now, though her statement would have been perfectly true if she had been occupying compartment numbers 2, 4, 6, and so on, in which the bolt is usually directly under the handle of the door (save for compartments at the end of each coach)—in the uneven numbers such as compartment 3- in which she was! The bolt is well above the handle and could not therefore be masked by the sponge-bag in the least. I was forced to the conclusion that Mrs. Hubbard was inventing an incident that had never occurred!"

"And here let me say just a word or two about times. To my mind the really interesting point about the dented watch, is the place where it was found—in Riddle's pyjama pocket, a singularly uncomfortable and unlikely place to keep one's watch, especially as there is a watch 'hook' provided just by the head of the bed. I felt sure, therefore, that the watch had been deliberately placed in the pocket—faked. The crime, then, was not committed at a quarter past one."

"Was it then committed earlier? To be exact, at twenty-three minutes past twelve? My friend M. Bouc would advance as an argument in favour of it the loud cry which awoke me from sleep. But if Riddle had been heavily drugged, he could not have cried out. If he had been capable of crying out, he would have been capable of making some kind of struggle to defend himself, and there were no signs of any such struggle."

"I remembered that Malfoy had called attention, not once but twice (and the second time in a very blatant manner), to the fact that Riddle could in fact speak no French. I came to the conclusion that the whole business at twenty-three minutes past midnight was a comedy played for my benefit! Anyone might see through the watch business—it is a common enough device in detective stories. They assumed that I should see through it and that, pluming myself on my own intelligence, I would go on immediately to assume that since Riddle spoke no French, the voice I heard at could not have been his, and that Riddle must have been already dead. As per the first theory I gave you. But I am convinced that at twenty-three minutes past twelve, Riddle was still lying in his drugged sleep! Not yet dead!"

"But the device has succeeded! I have opened my door and looked out. I have actually heard the French phrase used. If I am so unbelievably dense as not to realise the significance of that phrase, it must be brought to my attention. If necessary, Malfoy can come right out in the open. He can say, 'Excuse me, Mr. Poirot, that can't have been Voldemort speaking. He couldn't speak French!'"

"Now, what was the real time of the crime? And who killed him? In my opinion—and this is only an opinion—Riddle was killed at some time very close upon two o'clock, the latest hour the doctor gives us as possible. As to who killed him—"

Poirot paused, looking at his audience. He could not complain of any lack of attention. Every eye was fixed upon him. Some with tears in them. In the stillness you could have heard a feather drop.

Poirot went on slowly:

"I was particularly struck by the extraordinary difficulty of proving a case against any one person on the train, and by the rather curious coincidence that in each case the testimony giving an alibi came from what I might describe as an 'unlikely' person. Thus, Mr. Malfoy and Colonel Weasley provided alibis for each other—two persons between whom it seemed most unlikely there should have been any prior acquaintanceship. The same thing happened with the English valet and the much louder Englishman, and with the so-called Scandinavian lady and the English governess." 

"I said to myself: This is extraordinary—they cannot all be in it! And then, I saw the light! Of course they were all in it! For all these people connected with the Potter case in some way to be travelling by the same train through coincidence was not only unlikely: it was impossible! It must be not by chance, but by meticulous design. I remembered a remark of Colonel Weasley's about trial by jury. A jury is composed of twelve people— there were eleven passengers— but Riddle was stabbed twelve times. However, the thing that had worried me all along—the extraordinary crowd travelling on this train at a slack time of year—this was finally explained."

"Riddle had escaped justice. And there was no question as to his guilt. I visualised a self-appointed jury of twelve people who had condemned him to death and who by the nature of the case had themselves been forced to be his executioners. And immediately, on that assumption, the whole case fell into beautifully neat and shining order. I saw it as a perfect cast acting out their script, each person playing his or her allotted part. It was so arranged that, if suspicion should fall on any one person, the evidence of one or more of the others could if needed clear the accused person and confuse the issue. Lupin's evidence was necessary in case some outsider should be suspected of the crime and be unable to prove an alibi. The passengers who might board the train last-minute were in no danger. How merciful."

"Every tiny detail of their evidence was worked out beforehand. The whole thing was indeed a very cleverly assembled jigsaw puzzle, so arranged that every fresh piece of knowledge that came to light made the solution of the whole more difficult, and if need be further knowledge could be fabricated. As my friend M. Bouc remarked, the case seemed fantastically impossible! That was exactly the impression intended to be conveyed. Does this second solution explain everything? Yes, it does. The nature of the wounds—each inflicted by a different person. The artificial threatening letters—artificial since they were unreal, written only to be produced as evidence."

"Doubtless there were once real letters, warning Riddle of his fate in detail, which Malfoy destroyed, substituting for them the fakes. Then Remus Lupin's story of being called in by Riddle—a lie, of course, from beginning to end. The description of the mythical 'small dark man with a womanish voice'—a convenient description since it had the merit of not incriminating any of the actual Wagon Lit conductors and would apply equally well to a man or a woman."

"Yes- now. The idea of stabbing is at first sight a curious one, but on reflection nothing else would fit the circumstances so well. A dagger is a weapon that can be used by anyone—strong or weak—and it made no loud noises. I fancy, though I may be wrong, that each person in turn entered Riddle's darkened compartment through that of Mrs. Hubbard—and struck! They themselves would never know which blow therefore actually killed him. Any guilt you would all feel would be equal, without any one person taking on a greater burden."

"The final letter which Riddle had probably found on his pillow was carefully burnt. With no clue pointing to the Potter case there would be absolutely no reason for suspecting any of the passengers on the train. It would be put down as an outside job, and the 'small dark man with the womanish voice' would actually have been seen by one or more of the passengers leaving the train, at Carrour or Fort William!"

"I do not know exactly what happened when the conspirators discovered that this part of their plan was impossible owing to the accident to the train. There was, I imagine, a hasty consultation, and then they decided to go through with it. Because, you see, they already knew we were trapped when they committed the murder! Someone made sounds in Riddle's compartment at a quarter past one to make me think there was a panicked murdered cleaning up! Not wholly aware of the situation! Everyone was well-aware! At a quarter past one, the train had been stopped for over an hour!"

"It was true that now one and all of the passengers were bound to come under suspicion, but that possibility had already been foreseen and provided for. The only additional thing to be done was to confuse the issue even further. Two so-called 'clues' were dropped in the dead man's compartment—one incriminating Colonel Weasley (who had the strongest alibi and whose connection with the Potter family was probably the hardest to prove); and the second clue, the handkerchief, incriminating Princess McGonagall-Dragomiroff, or the Count or Countess, who all by virtue of their social position, the Princess's particularly frail physique- and the alibis given by her maid, each-other, and the conductor, were practically in an unassailable position."

"Further to confuse the issue, a red herring was drawn across the tracks—the mythical woman in the scarlet kimono. Again I am to bear witness to this woman's existence. There is a heavy bang at my door. I get up and look out—and see the woman disappearing in the distance. A judicious selection of people will say they have also seen her, such as Miss Granger and Colonel Weasley. It was, I think, someone with a good sense of humour who thoughtfully placed the scarlet kimono on the top of my suitcase whilst I was interviewing people in the dining-car. Where the garment came from in the first place, I do not know. I suspect it is the property of Countess Delacour, since her luggage contained only a blue chiffon negligee so elaborate as to be rather a tea-gown than a semi-practical dressing-gown."

"When Malfoy first learned that the letter which had been so carefully burnt had in part escaped destruction, and that the word Potter was exactly the word remaining, he must at once have communicated his news, to the others. My mistake was to not have you all isolated from one another in some way. But, it was at this minute that the position of Countess Delacour became acute, and her husband immediately took steps to alter his identity, and possibly hide any other links. This evidence would create a link not only with the case, but between two brothers! It was your second piece of bad luck!"

"One and all agreed to deny utterly any connection with the Potter family as much as possible. They thought I had no immediate means of finding out the truth, and they did not believe that I should go into the matter unless my suspicions were aroused against one particular person. Except my suspicions were aroused! Several times!"

"Now there was one further point to consider. Allowing that this theory of the crime was the correct one, and I believe that it must truly be the correct one, then obviously the Wagon Lit conductor of Riddle's carriage himself must be privy to the plot. And if so, that gave us our twelve. But, after some digging, I came to a very strange conclusion. I came to the conclusion that someone here had taken no direct part in the crime. She was the person who might be considered the most likely to do so. I refer to Countess Delacour- who lived in the Potter mansion three years ago."

"You see, I was impressed by the earnestness of her husband when he swore to me solemnly on his honour that his wife never left her compartment that night. I decided that Count Delacour, or should I say Weasley? Took, so to speak, his wife's place- he stabbed twice! Two left-handed stabs!"

"But, I ask myself, if Pierre Michel was definitely one of the twelve- well- eleven and an extra stab. How could one explain his complicity? He was a decent man who had been many years in the employ of the company—not the kind of man who could be bribed to assist in a crime. Then Pierre Michel must be involved in the Potter case. But that seemed very improbable. Then I realised! Fleur's long-gone family estate, Pierre Michel was French! And he acted well as a servant!" 

"Suppose that he had seen Fleur uprooted not only from her ancestral home, but then her adoptive home too? That would explain everything—it would also explain the place chosen for the staging of the crime. He had access to the company! Were there any others whose part in the drama was not clear? Colonel Weasley I put down as a friend of the Potters. They had probably been through the War together, but then of course, I find out he is related to them directly through Mrs. Potter. Then, the maid, Sybil Trelawney—I could guess her place in the Potter household. I am, perhaps, over greedy, but I sense a good cook instinctively. That and her fondness of sherry at dinner. So, I laid a trap for her—she fell into it. I said I knew she was a good cook. She answered: 'Yes, indeed, all my ladies have said so'."

"Ah, however, if you are employed simply as a lady's-maid your employers seldom have a chance of learning whether or not you are a good cook! Then there was Lupin. He seemed quite definitely not to belong directly to the Potter household. I could only imagine that he had been in love with Miss Nymphadora Tonks, and that he had been long associated with the Potter family through his courting of her, and through his teaching of them at Hogwarts. You see, I spoke to him of the charm of women—and again I obtained the reaction I was looking for. Sudden tears came into his eyes, which he pretended were dazzled by the snow."

Poirot paused, and watched as Lupin once again cried silently. He was not the only one of course. Not a single passenger had dry eyes, nor did Pierre Michel. 

"There remains Mrs. Hubbard. Now, let me say, she played the most important part in the drama. Which you will know is ironic! She had a key role, by occupying the compartment communicating with that of Riddle. She was more open to suspicion than anyone else. But she decided it was worth it. In the nature of things she could not have an alibi to fall back upon. To play the part she played—the perfectly natural, slightly ridiculous American fond mother—an artist was needed. And may I say, also a very authentic looking fake passport!"

"But of course there was an artist connected with the Potter family: Mrs. Potter's mother!—Margaret Prewett, the actress. Molly of course, is the English nickname for Margaret. And most importantly, her red hair, which of course says all! Then on top of that, your handkerchief, Molly Weasley, tells me your real name! You are the leader of the family in front of me!"

Poirot stopped. Raising his hands emphatically as he finished his theory.

Then in a soft rich dreamy voice, now with an English accent, quite unlike the American one she had used throughout the journey, Molly Weasley said:

"I always fancied myself in comedy parts- when we went to America, I found them so bizarre and loud- I would need some fun to let my mind go through this."

She went on, still dreamily: "That slip about the sponge-bag was silly. It shows that you should always rehearse properly. We tried it on the way out—I was in an even number compartment then, I suppose. I never thought of the bolts being in different places."

Molly Weasley shifted her position a little, and extracted a cushion from under her clothes, which had until now given her a much plumper appearance.

She looked straight at Poirot, and tears broke out.

"You know all about it, Poirot. You're a very wonderful man. But even you can't quite imagine what it was like—that awful day in New York. I was crazy with grief; so were the servants. Luna, Miss McGonagall, my dear Fleur and Bill, Hermione and Ron, Draco, they were all there. Neville and Remus didn't come until after. Now, you must see that Ron and Hermione were Harry's best friends. The rest were all his friends too. His own parents died long ago you understand. That's what we Weasleys do, we let people join the family- Fleur and Harry were like our own."

"But that bastard, Voldemort, and his evil friends, they didn't like that. Our family survived a world war, and another war of our own, but we couldn't survive him. They killed my only granddaughter, my only daughter, and my first son-in-law. Then there are Harry and Ginny's other children- who now have no parents."

"Harry saved my life in the war," interjected Ron Weasley quietly.

"He was the best friend I ever had, he didn't mock me," Luna Lovegood said proudly. 

Hermione, Neville, and all the others all then repeated similar sentiments. 

Molly carried on. "We decided that the sentence of death that Voldemort had escaped had to be carried out. There were twelve of us—or rather eleven as you say; Pierre Michel was over in France, of course. First we thought we'd debate as to who should do it, but in the end we decided on this way- all together."

"It was Hermione, who suggested it. She's so smart. Brightest girl of her age. She worked out all the details later with the rest... It took a long time to perfect our plan. These last three years were some of the hardest of our lives. Knowing he was out there, so we had first to track Riddle down. Lupin and the rest of the Order managed that in the end. Then we had to try and get Neville and Draco into his employment—or at any rate one of them. Well, we managed that. Then we had a consultation with Pierre. Hermione was very keen on having twelve of us. She seemed to think it made it more in order."

"Ron didn't like the stabbing idea much, seemed far too muggle, but he agreed that it did solve most of our difficulties. Well, then Pierre was willing. We knew from Draco that Riddle would be coming back from the East sooner or later by the Orient Express. With Pierre Michel actually working on that train, the chance was too good to be missed. Neville, Draco, and Pierre, all three followed Riddle all the way onto this train from Europe."

"Besides, it would be a good way of not incriminating any outsiders, Pierre said the service would be empty at this time of year. Draco wangled it so that Riddle selected the right day for travelling, when Michel would be on duty. We meant to engage every compartment in the train, even if under false pretences, to make doubly sure. But unfortunately there were three we couldn't get, so we just booked the ones we needed, and left any others empty. One of the three booked had been reserved long beforehand for a director of the company- Mr. Bouc. The other two we assumed were for holidaymakers. That would be you and Constantine, I imagine, Mr. Poirot? And then, of course, at the last minute, Hermione says you came, boarded at London not as a holidaymaker at all, but as a detective..."

Molly stopped, took a deep breath, and continued through many tears.

"Well," she said, "you must know everything now, Poirot. What are you going to do about it? If it must all come out, can't you lay the blame upon me and me only? I would have stabbed that man twelve times willingly. It wasn't only that he was responsible for my daughter's death and her child's and that of the other child who might have been alive and happy now. It was more than that: there had been other children kidnapped before Lily, and there might be others in the future. And he probably killed Harry's parents too. Society had condemned him- muggle and wizard alike—we were only carrying out the sentence."

She forced out more. "It's unnecessary to bring all these others into it. All these good faithful souls—Hermione and my son—they love each other... Then there's Michel, and all the rest."

Her voice was wonderful, echoing through the crowded space—that deep, emotional, heart-stirring voice that had thrilled many an audience.

Poirot looked at his friend Bouc.

"You are a director of the company, Monsieur Bouc," Poirot said, tears in his own eyes. "What do you say?"

M. Bouc cleared his throat.

"In my opinion, M. Poirot," he said, also holding back tears, "the first theory you put forward was the correct one—decidedly so. I suggest that that is the solution we offer to the Scottish police when they arrive. You agree, doctor?"

"Certainly I agree," said Dr. Constantine. "As regards the medical evidence, I think—er—that I made one or two suggestions that I can alter for this theory."

"Then," said Poirot, "having placed my solution before you, I have the honour to retire from the case..." 

Tears, sighs of relief, and words of sentiment followed. 

In the distance, the sound of a locomotive, one coming to retrieve the trapped train, could be heard. It whistled loud.

When Poirot retired to the empty restaurant car to dispose of his case papers pertaining to the second theory, Bouc followed and asked him simply.

"Mon cher, what may I ask, is a muggle?" 

"Oh, my dear Bouc, that is a story for another time..." Poirot answered, smiling.

-FIN-

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story is over. For now... if this does well enough, I'm considering following it up with a sequel. 
> 
> As always please feel free to leave feedback, comment, or contact me on tumblr (@jacobs-jottings). 
> 
> I've very much enjoyed writing this, and talking to people that have read it. Seeing the kudos emails as they slowly pop up is a wonderful feeling for any writer on here. 
> 
> So thank you very much if you've read this far, it means a lot!
> 
>  
> 
> \-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
> 
> The Roles Characters Filled:
> 
> Hercule Poirot - As Himself.
> 
> Dr. Constantine - As Himself.
> 
> The Conductor - As Himself.
> 
> M. Bouc. - As Himself.
> 
> Hermione Granger - As Mary Hermione Debenham.
> 
> Ron Weasley - As Colonel Arbuthnot.
> 
> William 'Bill' Weasley - As Count Andrenyi.
> 
> Fleur Delacour - As Countess Helena Maria Andrenyi (nee Goldenberg).
> 
> Molly Weasley - As Mrs. Hubbard/Linda Arden (Goldenberg).
> 
> Draco Malfoy - As Hector MacQueen.
> 
> Minerva McGonagall - As Princess Natalia Dragomiroff.
> 
> Sybil Trelawney - As Hildegarde Schmidt.
> 
> Luna Lovegood - As Greta Ohlsson.
> 
> Remus Lupin - As Cyrus Bethman Hardman.
> 
> Neville Longbottom - As Edward Henry Masterman.
> 
> Tom Riddle/Lord Voldemort - As Ratchett/Casetti: The Murder Victim.
> 
> Nymphadora Tonks - As the nursemaid, Susanne (DECEASED).
> 
> Harry Potter - As Colonel Armstrong (DECEASED).
> 
> Ginevra Potter - As Sonia Armstrong (DECEASED).
> 
> Lily Luna Potter - As Daisy Armstrong (DECEASED).


	32. Epilogue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter merely serves the purpose of giving you a sneak peek of Poirot's next case!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The feedback I've received so far on this piece has been really useful and kind! So I decided last month that I definitely want to follow it up. 
> 
> I love to hear from my readers, so please don't be shy! Feel free to contact me here or on Tumblr about my fics, or anything else. 
> 
> I've also made the decision to start a ko-fi page, it's not something I was wholly comfortable with doing, but a reader encouraged me. Any funds raised will probably be going towards my university savings, or maybe a book or two that I usually don't treat myself to.
> 
> https://www.ko-fi.com/jacobsjottings
> 
> I hope you enjoy this very small preview into Poirot's next case! The next case/fic is is a Doctor Who crossover (though this is not mentioned in the preview).

Dear Monsieur Hercule Poirot, 

I was recently informed of your success on the Hogwarts Express case in London, what a funny business that was! The press even say that nobody stuck around for an interview other than yourself! Is that true? 

Anyway, I shall jump straight to business. An associate of mine suggested that I commission you on behalf of my employer to help solve a mystery we're having. It's a rather sensitive issue- one of great importance and maybe even of excitement- several thefts- and if my hunch is right- I believe even a murder. I would greatly appreciate a meeting. I have enclosed a business card with our address on for this purpose. 

The department head is keen to keep your presence at the university as discreet as possible. If anyone should ask your reason for being here, simply tell them you are a guest speaker for the criminology course. The other detective we have hired for this case is also extremely enthusiastic about meeting you, I hope you will enjoy working with her.

Many thanks,

Professor Bridget Hart.


End file.
